


Silver Bullet

by Dicax_Asina



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Nothing brings two people together like killing zombies side by side, Pandemic - Freeform, Post Apocalypse AU, Reader goes from a bitch to a nice bitch real quick, apocalypse au, post apocalyptic, trust me - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-03-02 15:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18813922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dicax_Asina/pseuds/Dicax_Asina
Summary: [The Last Of Us AU]❝I don't need flowers on my grave.❞❝But you'll need a gun to stay out of it.❞In which Arthur Morgan tries to turn his demise into a useful sacrifice, but encounters a stranger along the way, and realizes that maybe things are not as simple as they seem.





	1. Chapter 1

Nobleness in death is not easy to seek out, and yet, Arthur Morgan finds it with such proficiency that it scares even himself.

Arthur sits on the ground, backpack tossed to his left, back leaned bodily against the wall of the building behind him. The sight around him is not a pretty one, but satisfying nonetheless. He's surrounded by countless dead bodies of Infected, and it's only his and Charles' work.

The pain in his left leg is unbearable, but Arthur makes no sound to show it. He dreads the truth about his injury more than he dreads the feeling of it in his flesh. It's an infected bite he must've acquired sometime within the past hour.

He knows what he has to do. It only takes roughly thirty seconds of staring in horror at the ugly, oozing semicircle of torn flesh on his calf. And then, realization, along with a thought he deems worthy of his gang and companions arrives. Arthur will go down a warrior, a fitting end to his gruesome life. He will kill and protect until his dying breath.

He likes the idea.

The body of a zombie he'd considered dead twitches, just a step away from him, and so does Arthur, before he retrieves his pocket knife in one swift motion and digs it into the creature's skull. Now it certainly is dead, both inside and out.

The thought of him one day looking like the dead bodies around him is haunting. Arthur doesn't like it - it would imply he's part of the entire problem, after all. He doesn't even want to think about the conversation he's had with Lenny a day or two ago, about how the boy suggested the Infected may very well still be sentient, but with a lack of control over their bodies.

Now that, that is worse than being part of the problem. 

His entire life, he has tried to be useful. To his family, to Dutch, to the gang. Should he become the very thing he'd sworn to kill and protect his loved ones from? No. 

But killing himself is a cowardly option, at least in his good opinion. Cowardly because there's still something, a last final thing he can do for the Van Der Linde gang. For the people that took him in and raised him when the outbreak started.

Besides, he knows the drill if Dutch finds out about his current state. He's seen it with Sean, Jenny, Bessie, and others that had once been a part of the gang but ended up infected. One last goodbye from all the gang members, followed by a mercy killing executed by Dutch. He does not want that. Not because he wouldn't like it, because he really, truly does, but he sees no objective use in it. He would leave his family in pain, and without having made himself useful one last time. Selfish.

Arthur Morgan isn't raised to be selfish, and he is planning on proving that one last time.

"You okay there?" The voice of Charles rings out from above him. Arthur has to suppress a surprised flinch as he nervously readjusts the pant of his left leg and gives a quick nod.

"Sure." With a wet, gruesome sound, he tears his blade out of the dead zombie's skull. "Jus'...needed a moment, after all o' this." He gestures at the crowd of dead Infected around the abandoned supermarket. 

Speaking of which, Charles does not look like he has been very successful at looting said building. His colleague's backpack looks only slightly fuller than when he entered.

"Find anythin'?" Arthur changes the subject.

"Not much." Charles sighs and shakes his head. "Looks like Dutch was wrong about there being a lot of canned food in here. Not that that's anything new, as of late."

Arthur nods in acknowledgment, staring down at his bloodied pocket knife. He wipes it off on the torn shirt of the dead zombie beside him. A ugly, cynical part of him feels relieved at the realization that he will not have to witness Dutch's descent into a man he does not recognize anymore, unless it happens within the upcoming two days, by some miracle. Which he doubts.

"Did you hear Dutch's other plan? He wants to-"

Arthur props himself against the wall behind him as he stands up. "Rob the military of their guns and supplies, I know." 

"It's pure madness."

Arthur feels inclined to agree.

He's not sure if he's only imagining an unfamiliar sting in his wound, or if it actually is there. Hardened by life and circumstance, Arthur knows how to handle pain, no matter how intense, and keep a cool head. But the bite is something else. He feels dizzy, afraid to put pressure on his injured leg, as if his bones were suddenly made of porcelain.

It takes everything out of him to conceal the limping in his step.

"You look pale." Charles speaks up, ever so attentive. He considers his friend's finesse for details both a blessing and a curse.

"Didn't eat much today." Arthur answers and shrugs to seem nonchalant. Truth is, his heart speeds up at the mere thought of the bite, of the infection already flowing through his bloodstream. He's scared.

Should he tell Charles? Or anyone at all, for that matter?

He should. But only one person, a person that knows how to keep a secret. Arthur wants to make sure he will not partake in the gang's borderline ritualistic mercy killing.

However he can't bear the thought of disappearing without letting his family know he was a lost cause, lest they start looking for him. The gang putting themselves in danger for the sake of a dead man walking is the last thing he wants.

He knows whom he should tell.

Hosea. Hosea can be trusted to stay silent until Arthur is not around anymore, and Hosea can be trusted to deal with the responsibility of knowing the truth. Hosea has grieved many times before, emotionally, he's the toughest of the entire bunch. It will not be easy for his father figure, but the old man will make it. He has lost his wife, which, in Arthur's opinion, has got to hurt more than losing a surrogate son.

He is going to tell Hosea.

And then he's going to run, and kill every Infected that crosses his path.


	2. Chapter 2

While Charles makes his way to Pearson's tent, Arthur is still stuck at the edge of the camp. He looks at the women, chatting by the campfire as they deftly stitch up clothes and listen to Javier strumming his old, still barely functioning guitar. 

He takes a moment to dedicate little Jack to memory as well, the way his eyes light up when Charles offers him some chocolate he'd found in the abandoned supermarket. Arthur takes in Dutch's tent, in the middle of the camp, in all its minimalistic greatness and glory, he listens to the wary but soft voice of Hosea, and the strong, imposing one of Dutch. Finally, he dedicates John to memory as well. The way he and Bill sip away on some old beer they'd found two or three days ago. This raw, mundane scene before his eyes is something he wants to remember, it's what he wants to replay in his head as he takes one final breath. His family, just as they have always been, and as they'll always be.

This will be his end. But it won't be theirs.

"This is suicide, Dutch." Hosea's voice rips Arthur out of his daydream. "The military already hates us, we ain't allowed into any quarantine zones anymore, and now you want to piss off the Resistance too?"

"Think about all the supplies, Hosea. We take a little from good ol' uncle Sam, a little from the rebels, and we'll live without a care in the world for the next six months! It's perfect."

Hosea says nothing, only stares at the folded, worn and ripped map on the wooden table, hesitates. Arthur suspects the old man has lost the will to rival and tame Dutch's stubbornness. That makes his stomach flip.

"All we need is a distraction, a lotta smoke, and we can pull this off." Dutch insists, tapping his finger on the map to punctuate every word he deems important. At the end of his sentence, he leans back in his chair, taking a drag out of his pipe. The smoke smells weird, unusual. Arthur realizes Dutch must've ran out of tobacco and made due with what herbs he could find around. The gang leader takes notice of his right hand man standing just a few steps away. "Arthur! How did you and Charles get on?"

"Not too good." Arthur crosses his arms in front of his chest as he puffs it out as he approaches the two. "Didn't find much, 'side from a bunch of Infected."

Dutch takes another drag from his pipe, stifling a cough before he blows out the smoke. "Damn. Someone must've gotten there before we did."

Arthur wants to roll his eyes. Of course there's been others in there, it's been roughly twenty years since the outbreak, for chrissakes! Supermarkets would obviously be the first target for survivors, it's clear as day.

Reason seems to become increasingly scarce ever since Micah has joined their group. Arthur, for one, doesn't like it one bit. But there isn't much he can change. Not anymore.

"Hosea, can I talk to you for a moment?"

He realizes how suspicious the sentence sounds only after it's been said out loud. Dutch says nothing, but watches with a tilt of his head and a feral glint in his eye. The fear of betrayal, the want to be in complete control.

"I found one of those...uh...detective novels you like. Back in the supermarket. Was wonderin' if you'd like to see it?" Arthur tries to play it off, but it is not excessively effective.

Hosea is quick enough to play along though — he is a born conman after all.

"Sure." The old man says, rising to his feet and leaving Dutch behind at the table. He leisurely trots beside Arthur, his pace and face relaxed and calm. Hosea's presence is comforting in the most familiar of ways. "What is it, Arthur? I'm guessing it's not really a book you want to talk about." The born conman asks as soon as they reach Arthur's tent.

He doesn't know why he feels like quipping, but Arthur gives in to the urge. "You're still too smart for me, old man."

Hosea smiles.

The blond man sighs, gathering his thoughts. Where should he even start? 'Sorry for interrupting that conversation back there, Hosea, but I've only got roughly two days before I lose my mind to the Infection and go full genocide on every living creature'?

"I...ain't got much time left, Hosea." Words are hard to come up with and scarce, if they haven't ceased existing in Arthur's head at all, that is. He fidgets with the rolled up sleeve of his blue shirt.

"What do you mean?"

The horror in Hosea's voice were indecipherable, easily missable, if Arthur hadn't known him for 20 years. "I mean I...I got infected. A few hours ago, I reckon. Didn't— Didn't quite notice— How, or, or when, I, um..."

A pause follows. He tries to gather his thoughts, calm himself.

"What do you want to do?"

Ever so thoughtful and respectful of his wishes, Hosea is and remains the most humane person Arthur has ever had the honor of meeting.

"I don't...think I want the whole..." Arthur swallows down the knot in his throat. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and Hosea, bless his soul, is looking up at him still so demurely and patiently. "...the whole mercy killin' act. I wanna leave. Be far away from everyone when it happens. Think you could...tell Dutch not to send anyone after me when I don't show up no more? It's all I ask."

Hosea lays a hand on his shoulder. A gentle reminder of all the times the gesture had happened before, but also a monument to how quizzical those past dilemmas had been. Nothing could compare to knowing one was doomed and being completely powerless to it.

"Of course."

Arthur closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath. Ignores the pain in his left leg, glances to his right, where his weapons are. He's got a purpose, a final one. Protecting his family from what he'll become. He exhales, steadier now than just a few seconds ago. Arthur has accepted his fate, however tragic it may seem.

"Thank you, Hosea."


	3. Chapter 3

He has made it far beyond familiar places. Slowly but surely, Arthur loses track of his surroundings. The only thing he remains fully aware of is the throbbing in his leg, and that he doesn't have the slightest clue where his is. It can't be much longer until he turns. 

He's surrounded by abandoned buildings and farmhouses, some cars scattered here and there. Whatever he's passing through used to be a rural town of sorts, which reminds him of where he grew up. It would be fitting to die in such a place, though also somehow ironic in a way he can't explain.

Arthur stops in his tracks when he hears distant screams and dull thumps. Sounds like some Infected, but what caused them to stir? Unless there is another uninfected human in close proximity, they're passive, so there must be someone nearby, aside from himself.

Has he been followed? Is it the military? No, they wouldn't be caught dead so far from a quarantine zone. The Resistance? Maybe, but what could they want in a place like this?

Surely not some country idyll, that's for sure.

Whomever the person may be, Arthur's decision is made within seconds. If he can help, he'll gladly do so. And if he dies overwhelmed by a group of Infected, there's nothing to lose. He'll be dead soon as it is. Might as well put a quicker end to his miserable life.

He checks his backpack for bullets. Two for the shotgun, five for the hunting rifle, fifteen for the 9MM pistol he usually refrains from using, simply because it's like a spoiled, angered lap dog — all noise and no damage. Should be enough, if his baseball bat, damn the stupid thing, won't break in the worst moment possible.

Arthur listens more closely, following the source of the sound. He sneaks between the abandoned buildings, taking down a zombie or two on his way, and ends up in front of an abandoned diner. The noises are much louder now, and they're a confusing mix of the signature moans of Infected, shouted swearwords and gunshots. Another person it is. And it doesn't sound like they're having too much of a blast.

Well then.

Arthur props his shoulder against the locked door of the diner, then gives it a hearty push. It breaks down without any hassle at all.

The interior of the diner smells old and musky, and of rotting meat. Arthur can't exactly be bothered with scents when he's getting jumped by at least three Infected simultaneously.

He's never loved his shotgun quite as much. It doesn't take Arthur more than two well-placed shots and a good few punches for the last zombie to take them down.

"Behind you!" A female voice warns.

He flips around as instructed, and is met face to face with a wildly screeching Infected. The creature flails its arms as it attacks.

Arthur places the first punch, which sends the zombie tumbling backwards a few centimeters. It's back on its feet before Arthur can think of what to do next, and it throws itself upon him, screeching aggressively.

He tumbles to the ground, kicking the creature in an attempt to get it off of him, but to no avail. The zombie has a death grip on his shoulders, and wants nothing more than to bite a chunk out of his neck.

What a heroic, exquisite way of dying.

A gunshot follows. The Infected's body slumps down on top of him, blood drips on his cheek.

Arthur relaxes when he realizes every noise has died out.

He leans his head back against the wooden floor, looks at his surroundings. Dead bodies everywhere, and on some stairs, behind a barricade made out of a closet and chairs, a young woman clutching a shotgun. She's not from the military, that's for sure, judging by the old T-shirt she's wearing. He sees no Rebel tattoo neck either, so that option's out of the way too. Maybe she's a Hunter, those maniacs that hunt down and eat humans. Best case scenario, she's another survivor, but optimism is a foreign concept to him.

"Do you punch zombies for fun or do you have a goddamn death wish?" The person from a few seconds prior shouts, tone practically dripping with stress and surprise.

"Maybe it's both, what business is it o' yours?" Arthur answers before kicking away the dead Infected on top of him. He stands up languidly, listens to the way the old floor creaks both under his weight, and that of the young woman, who has chosen to leave her barricade behind.

Arthur finds her pointing her rifle at him when he looks up. He sighs, raises his palms in surrender.

"Alright, simmer down, I got better things to do than kill ya."

"Don't worry, if either of us is dying, that's you, chum." 

Well, she's not wrong.

The woman presses the nuzzle of her rifle against his collarbone to accentuate her point. "Drop your backpack on the floor, kick it over."

Arthur sighs, but does as she says. Why he still treasures his life enough to follow her instructions is beyond him. 

"Good, now those two pistols." She puts her hand in his reach, still holds the rifle pointed at him with the other. "No funny business, because I can and will shoot you."

Arthur removes the two weapons from his belt, hands them over as well. She tosses one of them to a far corner of the room, keeps the other pointed at him, and straps her rifle to her back. Pistol still aimed at him, she moves towards his backpack, opening it to peek inside. Disappointment and anger is written on her face.

"Why does nobody have food on 'em nowadays?"

"I heard squirrels are a real delicacy. Give 'em a try sometime."

"Who do you belong to?" She ignores his joke expertly, still holding him at gunpoint. Talk about a charming, engaging personality.

"I ain't a dog, lady. Don't belong to no-one." Arthur responds sarcastically. He realizes he might as well have fun in the few hours in which he's still a human. If he dies by getting on some woman's nerves, he'll take it. It's by far less gruesome than witnessing a zombie rip his carotid artery out of his neck.

"Well, unless you're one of those fucking cannibals, who cares."

By exclusion, she must be a survivor, too. A pleasant surprise.

"Got good news for you, then. I ain't."

She relaxes, albeit only in the slightest. "What's your name?"

"Arthur."


	4. Chapter 4

She stares at him strangely for a second, but shakes off her expression before Arthur can even hope to try deciphering it. He expects her to say her name in return for the fact that he has revealed his, but the woman remains silent.

"What'bout you? What's your name?”

She tips the barrel of her — well, technically his — gun upwards, looks at him harshly before bossing on a tone that fits her expression: "Get out of here."

Talk about politeness.

"Don't that sound exotic." Arthur answers as he approaches her, reaching for his backpack and weapons, which are neatly placed beside her. The woman is quicker, grabs his wrist in a death grip and points his own gun at him. The goddamn audacity—

"I didn't say you could take your weapons." She growls. "I just said you could get out of here."

Who the hell is she to tell him what to do?

Arthur uses her death grip on his wrist, hauls his arm backwards and yanks the woman along with it, towards himself, then headbutts her. She reacts instantly, placing a strong kick against his knee, which is coincidentally enough, his injured leg.

He grunts in pain, and has no choice but to get down on one knee so that he doesn't fall over. When he looks up, he finds her pointing the gun at him once again, blood grotesquely oozing out of her nose and over her lips. There's some on her teeth when she speaks up. Arthur's sure he's never seen someone look quite so animalistic and feral.

"Pull that shit again and you're a dead man."

There's no way she hasn't fought people before, considering her reaction speed. This woman, whoever the hell she is, has not only taken down Infected, which are incalculable and senseless, but also humans, and plenty. It's clear as day.

What's the point in fighting death if it's already imminent? Arthur figures he might as well be honest. He's growing tired of everything as it is.

"I'm already a dead man. Shoot me if you want. Ain't gon' make too much of a difference." He admits. 

The previously wolfish look on the woman's face shifts into one of confusion and curiosity, but it still looks awfully grotesque because of the blood on her lips and chin.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Arthur reaches for the left leg of his pants, pulls it up so that it reveals his calf. The ripped flesh isn't bleeding anymore. It's a lacerated dryness of coagulated blood, surrounded by  ugly lymph; yellow and orange at the edges. It's showcasing how his body is fighting against the virus and losing.

The woman lowers her gun. Arthur dreads her expression more than anything else: mercy. It testifies that she's still humane in some measure, and that she is deeming him doomed enough to show the scarce amount pity she still has in her.

"I'm sorry." She says.

She isn't. Arthur knows.

"Don't waste your pity on me." He says, voice trailing off when she offers her other, unoccupied hand to help him get back up. There's fresh blood on her sleeve, which Arthur realizes must be from wiping the blood off her face.

He refuses her help, stands up by himself.

"How did it happen?"

He's surprised that she cares, but...he might as well say the truth.

"Was just tryin' to get some supplies for my group."

The stranger draws in a breath, looks at him with a tilt of her head. The blood on her face is gone, but there are residues of it left between her lips.

"You had a group?" 

It's difficult to believe anyone would make it all by themselves out here. As quick and agile as she is, as anyone is, there comes a time when one is doomed, regardless of abilities or luck. And without someone to guard your back, that moment is bound to approach much quicker.

"You don't?" Arthur shoots back a question of his own for once, which seems to surprise her.

"No, I...ran from a quarantine zone all by myself a little while ago." She admits. The stranger flips the gun in her hand so that she's holding the barrel and the grip is pointed towards Arthur. "Here, take it."

"I don't need flowers on my grave. Especially not from you."

"But you'll need a gun to stay out of it."

She makes a good point. Arthur sighs and takes the weapon from her and realizes that there's a small, barely visible smile on her face when he does.

"Where were you headed, Arthur?" She asks while she gathers his other weapons, stores them in his backpack, then slings it over only one of her shoulders. Her own rucksack hangs lazily from the other. "Before this?"

"Don't know. Just wanted to kill as many Infected as I could before I turned into one m'self."

She tiptoes over the corpses towards the exit of the diner, then looks at Arthur over her shoulder. "Tell you what, I'll keep you company."

Arthur stifles an annoyed growl at how pathetic he feels. He's being treated like some kind of sick old friend by a young woman that wouldn't have hesitated to kill him not less than a minute ago. He can't even tell if her reaction is one based on genuine kindness, however since it can't exactly come from anything else, that must be it. "Like I said, I don't need your pity."

"So you want to die alone, surrounded by a bunch of..." She gestures at the dead Infected that pile around Arthur. "...these things?"

It's not preferable, obviously, but he'll take what he can get, he supposes. Besides, who is she to saunter around the place and assume how he'd like to spend his last moments?

"It don't bother me." Arthur lies.

She sees right through it.

Arthur sighs, steps over the carcasses towards the exit as well. As much as he hates to admit it, he'd prefer dying with someone around. It's less...terrifying, in a way.

"You might as well make your death worthwhile. Or acceptable, at the very least." She argues, then slides Arthur's backpack off her shoulder and holds it out to him.

He looks at the weapon-stocked bag, then at her. "You sure you should be doin' that?" 

"Why would a dying man want to kill me?"

"Because you took away all my weapons, threatened me, then almost broke my knee."

"You headbutted me in return. Not to mention I've saved your life, and I'm now giving you your weapons back. Sounds to me like we're even."

"Keep telling yourself that." Arthur responds, but ultimately takes the backpack from her. A wave of comfort washes over him once he has his entire collection of weapons at his disposal once again. "B'sides, don't you know how the sayin' goes? A drowning man will always try and drag somebody down with him."

She smiles at him, and it looks gentle, in spite of the blood on her lips.

"Sayings don't mean much in a world like this."


	5. Chapter 5

"So, you said you were part of a group." The woman begins, perhaps in the hopes of striking up a conversation. Her voice is muffled by the fact that she is in another room of the abandoned house they're currently looting. If Arthur's to share his opinion, he deems it rather hopeless to look through the houses in the rural area, seeing as they must've been sucked dry of anything useful in the past two decades, but he digresses. Dying men don't get to argue when it comes to the long term.

Arthur glances outside the broken window at the lazily shining afternoon sun, then kicks open a cabinet and peeks inside. Empty, just like the rest of the damn place. He should've just gone for the squirrels instead of this nonsense.

"How many of there were you?" The stranger continues as she steps into the room, leaning her side against a broken doorframe. 

"What's it to you?" He snaps back, ignoring the slight remorse he's feeling all of a sudden. What does it matter if he's hurt some woman's feelings? Apparently enough to leave an unpleasant feeling in his gut.

She leaves the room.

Arthur pads around the house a tad longer, facing the silent consequences to his rudeness. He sighs before trying to justify it to the best of his abilities. "I don't even know your name."

More silence.

Goddamnit.

Arthur clenches his fists, overwhelmed by anger. What the hell is he even doing? Following around some stranger and for what exactly? He should be out there amongst Infected, risking his life to keep his family safe, and yet he feels like he should stick around with the stranger. He wouldn't call it caring about her per se...it's more of an instinct to want to ensure things go smoothly for as many people as possible before he faces his inevitable demise.

He trots over to an old bookshelf he finds, stroking his fingers over the spines of the books. Various titles, ranging from sci-fi to historical fiction, amongst which he finds a few titles he could see himself enjoying. Not that it matters. Books are too heavy to carry around for long, and they're meant for entertainment, not survival, which is something Arthur has almost forgotten.

He reminiscences with how little regard he'd treated things before the pandemic, especially the mundane ones. Baths, books, electricity, warm food, coffee. He misses them almost as greatly as not living in constant fear. Not that there's much living left to speak of. Not for him.

"My name is (y/n)." He jumps when he hears the voice behind him, having completely forgotten about the stranger's presence. "There you have it."

He's heard the name before, somewhere, in a whisper. But he can't be bothered to dig through his memories to find out when or where it happened. Besides, relying on nothing but first names is foolish at best.

He grunts affirmatively, then turns his attention back towards the bookshelf. A philosophy book strikes his fancy, with its authentic, leather-bound cover. Arthur presses his index over the top of the book's spine and tilts it diagonally out of the shelf. It's too thick to carry.

"Kant?" (Y/n) asks, walking up behind him, peeking at the book. "Not bad."

"You keen on philosophy?" Arthur returns the question, but doesn't look at her. He doesn't know why he can't quite muster the courage to.

"Hmm...to some extent." She responds and clasps her hand around the book, sliding it out of the shelf to leaf through it. "And you?"

"Not too big on anythin', to be honest." He admits with a shrug.

"Didn't read much before the pandemic?" She asks, and Arthur smiles bitterly. (Y/n) must consider him some big, dumb moron. Not that it matters. He's dying tomorrow or the day after that anyways.

"Read a lil' bit of everythin', I guess." Arthur shrugs and watches her look through the pages of the book with curiosity before her gaze shifts towards him. 

There's a genuine smile on the woman's face as she speaks. Arthur finds it hard to believe she wouldn't have hesitated to shoot his brains out not more than an hour ago. "Come on, everyone has at least one genre they prefer a smidge more than the rest."

Arthur sighs, stuffs his hands into his pockets as he looks back at the bookshelf in thought. "Westerns."

"Figures."

Arthur's surprised that she's not surprised. Brows furrowed, he looks at her with what can only be described as confusion. That earns him a giggle from (y/n).

"Because of your accent, cowboy." She jokes in a terrible attempt at mimicking the way he talks.

"That ain't how I sound." Arthur retorts.

"Sure." She stifles a snicker, puts the book back in its place with graceful movements. She glances at him from the corner of her eye, and her smile fades. "Did you check the kitchen?"

"Yes." Arthur shakes his head hopelessly. "No luck."

"Damnit." (Y/n) rolls back her shoulders and sighs in defeat.

Arthur hears something in another room creak — the floor. Within seconds, his mind starts racing as he picks up on another similar sound, more careful and well-placed this time to avoid repeating it. A zombie could never hope of achieving such reluctance.

"What was the other alternative you mentioned? Squirrels-"

He doesn't think twice, puts his hand over (y/n)'s mouth and drags her into the corner of the room, behind the bookshelf.

She fights back, protests, prepares to kick him, but Arthur puts an end to that with one simple, whispered sentence. "I heard someone."

She draws in a shaky breath, then nods her head to let him know she'll cooperate. Her back presses flush against him as she now listens in as well. 

There are steps audible, heavy but rhythmic. Certainly a human. The sound of a door being opened, and another pair of shoes against the wooden floor follows. Two people. (Y/n) tenses. Arthur loosens his grip, but that doesn't seem to help her state much. Her hand darts to her belt, more specifically, her gun, and Arthur's stomach performs a flip at the sight. A ruckus is the very last thing they need.

"Jesus Christ, can't this man just chill for once? Not everyone's out to betray him. Besides, it's not like she'll make it too far." One of the two people speaks up, voice smooth and languid.

(Y/n) loads the gun, but Arthur won't have it. Who knows how many other friends these two may have? They can't possibly risk alerting everyone with a gunshot.

Arthur puts his hand over the gun, pushes it down. (Y/n) looks at him with a raised brow. He refrains from giving her a verbal answer and places his index on top of his lips. She seems to understand.

"Honestly couldn't give less of a shit about this whole thing. I just wanna go back home." Comes an answer from the other one. Also a man, but he talks quickly, sharply, compared to the other. 

"You? Want to go back home?" The other chuckles. "Since when are you eager to go home and not shoot somebody's brains out?"

The steps stop. "You gotta promise not to tell anyone."

A confused huff follows.

"...sure?"

"I stole the lieutenant's supply of bacon."

"You're shitting me!"

"No."

"Holy shit, dude!" 

Laughter ensues. 

Arthur sees it as a good opportunity to slip out of the house through a window in the wall. (Y/n), not so much.

She seems to be more enthusiastic to slit their throats open, approaching the door that separates them from the source of the sounds, knife in her hand.

Part of Arthur tells him to stop giving a damn about her and whatever may happen to her. He can pick his battles, so can she. If she wants to go down in this one, good for her.

The other part of him, which Arthur has considered weakened until that very moment —  empathy, to be precise — is against it. He can't leave her behind. She saved his life...or what is still left of it, he remembers grimly. He owes her this, at the very least.

Arthur taps her shoulder, then nods towards the open window. She looks with dread towards the source of the sound, her knife, and then at him. Her grip tightens around the blade, and her direction doesn't change.

Great, as if the gang wasn't enough, Arthur thinks, he now has this hotheaded imbecile on his hands.

Arthur stifles a groan of annoyance as he grabs her forearm, squeezing with enough force to make her drop the knife. It clatters against the floor, loudly.

"Hey, you hear that?"

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being so slow with my updates, finals are kicking my ass!! Thank you kindly for being so patient with me♥️


	6. Chapter 6

"What?"

"Sounded like something fell on the floor."

Arthur feels like he's just swallowed a kilogram of molten steel and received a punch to the guts as a garnish. His hold on (y/n) loosens.

She uses that to bolt out of his grip, picks up the dropped knife, then grabs his wrist as she dashes towards the window. He silently thanks whatever made her come back to her senses. Or at least smart enough to realize that genocide, as tempting as it may be, is not the way to go about their current situation.

Once they've both landed outside in the bushes, Arthur ignores the pain in his legs and presses his back against the wall, listening. The steps are getting louder, have probably reached the library already. He manages to tame his racing breath quickly and allows himself to focus on the sounds.

(Y/n)'s breath stutters as she tries to make herself as small as possible beside him. Arthur wishes he too could benefice of the privilege of hiding behind someone at least a head bigger than him.

One of the two men laughs, (y/n) jumps slightly. He has no idea why, but he decides to put his hand on her shoulder, grip loose, hoping to provide some comfort. He can't quite figure out why hiding doesn't come naturally to her — it borders on something as simple as breathing for every person that has lived outside a quarantine zone.

One of the men speaks up. "Man, you sure you and the sarge ain't related? I mean, it's not hard to imagine, since you're both so fucking paranoid."

(Y/n) doesn't tense this time. Arthur interprets it as positive.

"Shut up, there was something."

"Paaaaraaanoid."

"Explain why every single infected in that diner was dead." A pause follows.

"Could've been anyone, not just her." One answers, then sighs in defeat. "This is pointless. Let's go back to the others. This bitch could be anywhere, no point in looking around this dump."

With that, they make their leave.

The sentence rings in Arthur's head. Could be anyone, not just her.

Do they mean (y/n)?

And if so, what does the military want from someone that can't even control their breathing while hiding?

He glances at her, pressed both against the wall and his side, looking as if she'd seen a ghost. Arthur tilts his head inquisitively.

"'M good." She whispers in response. It's not the information Arthur was looking for, but he'll take it. At least she's not dead.

Unlike him in a day or two.

"What the hell were you thinkin'?" Arthur hisses. "You was on the verge of causing a damn ruckus and for what exactly?"

"That-" She responds on an equally sharp tone, stops in to take a quick breath. "-is not your problem."

"If they start shootin' me, it's my damn problem. Do I look like I want to die?"

"It's not like you have much left to live."

Arthur swears to god, the only person that has ever wanted to make him put his hands around their throat and squeeze the damn life out of them is Micah — and now (y/n). He supposes there's only one core difference between the two. Micah is an adept of lies, while she has used nothing but the truth to hurt him. Maybe that's why it stings a lot more.

"I'm so sorry." (Y/n) whispers after a moment of heavy silence, and her tone shows that she truly is. Arthur sighs and tips his head back against the wall of the house they're still pressed against. It produces a sound much louder than he expects and leaves his skull aching. He has to refrain from cussing.

"Okay, there definitely is something." The man that had been previously accused of being paranoid speaks up. "Or someone. Stay here for all I give a damn, I'm checking."

"Alright, Holter."

"Compare me to the sarge one more time, I fucking dare you."

Arthur glances at (y/n), mouths two words he knows far too well. "Now what?" She points at the other houses, then towards the both of them, then imitates a walking human with her middle and index finger.

Arthur shakes his head. If there's only one target, he can take it down quietly without any hassle at all. He slides his backpack off of one shoulder, opens it slowly while listening for steps. They've started searching the house, both of them.

Can't be long until they find them.

He retrieves his knife and holds it tightly as he awaits. (Y/n) has a blade of her own, which she slides out of her boot. She looks up at him, almost solemnly, then clutches her own weapon before giving a nod.

The steps return to the library, and Arthur flips around the knife in his hand, holding it by the blade.

(Y/n) watches curiously, but says nothing.

The window above them opens.

In an instant, Arthur pushes himself off the wall, turns around. When the man — a soldier — peeks outside, he flicks his wrist and sends the knife flying. It hits his enemy's forehead with a deadly precision. The man's body goes limp and he falls out the window. That must've been loud.

He goes to retrieve his weapon, but before he can, (y/n) jumps out of the bushes and drags him back to the side of the house.

Arthur tilts his head, wondering what exactly that was for, until she places her index on top of her lips, then points skywards. 

"And, find anything, Holter?"

A mellow, careless whistle follows, accompanied by slurred steps.

"Liam?" The voice speaks up again. "Come on, buddy, I was joking. Didn't know you'd take so much offense from me comparing you to the sarge, Jesus Christ."

(Y/n)'s grip on Arthur's wrist is steely as she drags him around the house, then inside it through the broken down front door.

"Leave the other one to me." She whispers. "I've been dreaming about doing this."

Arthur frowns, but agrees nonetheless as he follows. 'Dreaming about this'? What, does she know the guy personally, or has she just been looking forward to killing a human being?

Both options seem plausible, given the thirst for blood in her eyes. 

They both approach the room from which the whistling can be heard the loudest, stopping on either side of the entrance inside it, backs against the wall.

"Liam? That you? Come on, don't play games with me, you know I hate that." The man sighs. "Look, if you just wanna hear me say I'm sorry, then here you go. I'm really sorry that you get offended and that you're possibly the biggest damn pussy in—"

The man's voice catches in his throat. Arthur can only guess he has had a look at the dead body outside.

"What the-"

(Y/n) uses the man's shock to her advantage, sprints out of her hiding spot and jumps when she's half a meter away from the man. He has little time to react as she hooks her legs around his waist, one hand around his shoulders, and digs the knife into his neck with the other.

She rips it out of the flesh then drives it back in repeatedly, spraying the aged, grey walls with blood. Not an elegant kill, but Arthur digresses.

There's nothing but satisfaction on her bloodied face when she turns around to look at him.

"You've got to teach me that throwing trick for next time."


	7. Chapter 7

He can't remember for how long they've kept going, but it's got to be at least seven hours. It's starting to get dark, but there is a very small amount of infected in the woods. It's a thumb rule, after all: if it's no place humans have frequented, infected are highly unlikely to appear in overwhelming amounts. 

(Y/n) is decent company if she's silent. Or maybe Arthur just can't handle more sounds than the constant buzzing in his head. If he weren't a few hours away from certain death, he'd probably be worrying about his incompetence as a conversation partner. Luckily, he'll be long gone by tomorrow or the day after that. Maybe even by tonight. No reason to bother anymore.

Uncertainty is as terrifying as it gets, but unsettlingly calming.

Arthur blinks in surprise when he bumps against (y/n). She's stopped walking, for seemingly no reason.

"You tired, Arthur?"

He can't remember the last time he's heard that question. Or the last time he's bothered to think about it himself. It's borderline terrifying to hear it out loud.

Still, he nods reluctantly.

"Good, thought I was the..." She giggles airily, in an attempt to ease the atmosphere. He can appreciate that. "Thought I was the only one that couldn't feel their legs anymore."

"You ain't." He reassures. She smiles at that. "Let's find a spot to set up a campfire."

And so they do. (Y/n) stumbles across a small clearing minutes later, and proves to be a great help when it comes to finding firewood.

She also has a lighter on her, much to Arthur's bewilderment and simultaneous joy. Before he knows it, (y/n) plops on the ground, stuffs her backpack under her head and yawns. Arthur busies himself by tending to the small, newborn fire and shielding it from the gentle breeze until its flames grow. Uncertain about what to do, Arthur then shuffles to sit on the ground and hugs his knees. 

Sleep is not going to come easily tonight. Not after leaving his family behind, not after knowing death is coming to collect its debt from him, and that it's catching up fast. Not a chance, his mind will be hyperactive through and through until his collapse.

He hates that. Hates himself for it.

"You gonna keep staring like that or are you gonna get some sleep?"

Arthur shakes his head to silence the obnoxious buzzing of his thoughts. No luck.

"Sorry, I was...just thinkin'."

"About uh..." She nods at his left foot, coughs awkwardly. He confirms it with a nod. (Y/n) shifts to lean on her left elbow. Her cheek squishes against her knuckles, Arthur is surprised that he finds it endearing. When has he last seen a pretty sight? "Me too, actually. And I mean— Don't take this as an insult, but I...I'm a bit terrified of the idea of waking up to you trying to bite a chunk out of me."

Arthur sighs. Uncertainty is an immense inconvenience. 

He sits up and reaches for his backpack, starting to dig through it. (Y/n) watches with a curious glint in her eye as he retrieves some rope. With a sigh and a tight knot, Arthur secures it around his ankles.

"'F I wake up infected, I won't be smart enough to know how to undo this. And you'll have time to put a bullet through my head. Sound good?"

She nods, grimly, seriously. It's a stark contrast to how childish her face looked mere seconds ago, and a grim reminder of the world they live in.

(Y/n) gives Arthur a smile like she means it, then shifts to lay on her side.

Arthur stays up for much longer than he can fathom, stares at the night sky. It looks better now, after the apocalypse, somehow clearer. It has got something to do with cars and factories, he thinks. Or so he's heard a while ago. Arthur remembers visiting a crowded city once and looking for the stars to no avail, it was unsettling. They always used to shine brightly in his home town, especially in its periphery, where his farm was.

Arthur misses his farm. His old life.

It's a strange kind of calming to look at the stars. The world will go on, even with him gone. And maybe it's for the best that he won't get to see the rest of it. He feels too tired to, anyways.

Some rest sounds nice.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It's silent when he wakes up. The campfire is dead, the stars are gone, he's still alive.

The spot on the other side of the campfire shows flattened grass, roughly the size of (y/n)'s frame. It's forgotten and left behind, her backpack is gone. So is Arthur's.

Goddamnit.

He should've known, he tells himself with a stifled growl in the back of his throat, should've seen it coming. Of course she was going to take his things and leave. He's a dying man and she's a desperate young woman. He can't even blame her.

Arthur was too caught up in the sentimentality of it all to even consider her doing it, how naive of him.

He gets up, but almost topples over with his ankles tied. Arthur groans, reaches to undo the rope. 

The bushes behind him rustle.

He can't even process what exactly he's doing, Arthur unsheathes the knife from his boot and flips it in his hand, ready to throw it.

"Thought you'd like something to—" (Y/n) stops dead in her tracks when she sees Arthur holding the blade. She raises one hand to demonstrate surrender, she must be holding something in the other one. "Calm down, I just brought food."

His frame goes slack, Arthur drops the knife.

"Thought ya'd already ran off." He admits, (y/n) shakes her head. 

"I only borrowed your bow." She explains with a tone that could soothe all the wrongs in the world. The young woman presents a rabbit and a squirrel proudly, Arthur blames himself for being one flick of the wrist away from killing her. Maybe not everyone is out to betray him, in spite of what he likes to think. What he's been conditioned to think.

And maybe he hadn't been so naive after all, he supposes when (y/n) shifts to sit beside him and brings the campfire back to life. Arthur rushes to her aid and skins the two animals.

Blood on his hands is, for once, a welcome sight.


	8. Chapter 8

(Y/n) mumbles to herself as she nibbles on the remaining grilled flesh on the rabbit bones. It sounds to Arthur like she's planning out her day, reminding herself of her goals.

As crazy as it seems, it's kept him sane more times than he can count.

Arthur wonders if he should dare asking where she's headed. If he's even supposed to? It's been far too long since he's interacted with anyone aside from his gang, save for putting bullets through people's heads. Words don't come easily with new acquaintances, sentences even less so. But then again, what does he have to lose?

"You lookin for somethin'?" He asks, then throws a nearby stick into the dying flames at his feet. Suddenly, it strikes Arthur that maybe his guess was wrong. "Or someone?"

She smiles at his observation, then throws the naked rabbit bone into the flames as well. It's a gruesome, but somehow comforting sight.

(Y/n) hesitates for a moment, but not more. He supposes she puts her trust mostly into the fact that he'll take her secrets to his grave. Quite literally. "The Resistance." She finally admits, then continues talking after receiving a moment of thoughtful silence from Arthur. "You know, the revolutionary militia group all across—"

"Don't gotta explain." Arthur raises his hand minutely, shakes his head. "I know them."

Her eyes seem to brighten up as she straightens her back, (y/n) looks at him like he's made of liquid gold .

"You know the Resistance?"

Oh. That came out wrong.

"Well— Not...in person. Don't got no rebel friends or anythin'." Arthur smiles, shakes his head. "Doubt they still exist these days."

(Y/n) makes a sound like she has something to say, something imposing and clear and certain, but it ends up as a meek whisper.

"There still are Rebels." She insists quite decisively in spite of the unimpressive volume of her voice. "There have to be." The last part however sounds more pained than hopeful. Arthur knows the feeling a little too well.

He'd hate to ruin her hope for her. Leaving it at uncertainty seems the right thing to do, the merciful thing to do. "'S jus' that I ain't seen one in ages." Silence follows, she's anything but convinced. "But who knows, maybe that's just been me." Arthur clears his throat awkwardly. "You know any of em?"

"Yes— well, I...no. I don't know." (Y/n) shakes her head, sighs, then gets up, picks her backpack off the ground. Arthur follows.

"Sounds like a yes or no situation to me." He responds, (y/n) shoots him a glance that embodies concealed pain.

His talent at driving people away is immeasurable, isn't it? Arthur wishes he hadn't even opened his mouth from the start, goddamn him. Now (y/n) is very likely to look forward to his certain death almost as much as anyone else he's interacted with before.

"Used to. He's— well…I haven’t seen him in years." (Y/n) says out of nowhere, providing him with a pleasant surprise. Arthur still doesn't take that as an approval to tread deeper into her past, the sentence that follows confirms he's interpreted her right. "Hell, maybe he’s dead, but…I’d rather not think about that. At least not right now."

Not right now, she says it like they have time.

"Alright." Arthur nods, respecting nonetheless, scratches his scruff as he thinks. 

He wanted to die being useful, wasn't that it? Perhaps if he works alongside her until he turns, he'll not only take down more infected to protect his family, but also help (y/n) reach her goal. It sounds...supposedly symbiotic. Not like he can afford being picky, still. He'll be dead by tomorrow if he's lucky. Sooner if not. "I'll help ya." 

She looks at him like a spooked deer, Arthur shrugs with one shoulder.

"You'll help me look for the Resistance?" (Y/n) asks in disbelief. To be fair, he wouldn't put too much faith into the offer of an acquaintance either, but neither of them have a choice.

Arthur gives a wry smile. "Might as well."

"But, I—, they—" (Y/n) shakes her head to recollect herself, gestures into the air not to accentuate direction, but distance. "They're all in Minnesota. Or, what's left of them. And we're—"

Arthur waves his hand dismissively. "Somewhere in Missouri, I reckon." He's traveled much further than this, it shouldn't be too much of a difficult feat. "It ain’t too close, but it’s achievable."

"It’s a long journey on foot." She argues. A voice of reason in this place of madness, she's a bit like Hosea. A young, reckless and blood-thirsty Hosea. Or maybe he's just clinging onto whatever little amounts of his family he can still find in those around him.

Which is a very foolish thing to do. They've got a lot of tasks that need to be taken care off, emotional comfort is something he cannot afford.

"Reckon you're right." Arthur admits. "But 's why I'm helpin' you find a car instead."

Her face lights up, (y/n) nods before her enthusiasm slowly fades. "But how could we— the cars are all old and broken."

Arthur cooks a smile that shows he knows something she doesn't. 

"I reckon good ol' uncle Sam should have a few to spare."

The young woman looks at him like he's just insulted her entire ancestry, shakes her head frantically.

"The military is not to be messed with, trust me." (Y/n) doesn't sound fearful, to his surprise. Just genuine and calm, like she means every syllable. "I'd rather walk than get killed while trying to steal a car from them."

"Good." Arthur nods, then reaches over her shoulder, to the nuzzle of the rifle that sticks out of her backpack. He removes it smoothly, then flips it horizontally in his hands before handing it to (y/n). The weapon is a gorgeous, powerful little thing, scope included. "'Cause you'll be watchin' my back while I do."

She's confused at first, utter disbelief etched into her expression. But (y/n) understands, always does, sooner or later. She sighs.

"Guess it's easier to stomach if you've got nothing left to lose." Her grip around the scoping rifle tightens, she glances at Arthur with a half-smirk. "Well, alright. Let's pay them a social call."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Had a bit of a writer's block (and quite little amounts of time to write lately) but luckily the first problem has been remedied by music. Thank you for your patience and sorry for the quite clumsy dialogue in this chapter. I just can't seem to find a way to improve it, nor to like it, but I figured that I had kept you all waiting quite enough.


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur likes rain, as inconvenient as it is. The smell is better than any food's he's tasted since the outbreak, and the pitter-patter of drops in the mud is a silent encouragement for thoughts to wander. It's rare to feel at ease, Arthur savors as much of it as he can.

(Y/n) is surprisingly good at tracking for someone who has so little knowledge about food sources and subtlety. For once, he can be the one that does nothing to contribute — it's very odd to be in such a position. But complaining would be utterly foolish.

(Y/n)'s a strange one, that much Arthur's certain of. Thirsty for blood and yet ready to offer kindness when given the occasion, the blend in her personality is terrifying and as unpredictable as a zombie attack.

Maybe that's what has kept her alive for so long.

"Arthur! You need to see this!" 

He blinks in a quick succession to wash the internal monologue out of his thoughts. (Y/n) stands in the middle of a muddy road, looks at Arthur like it's Christmas day. He trots over to her side, sucks in a wince when he steps somehow awkwardly and causes a slight ache in his bitten leg.

He then hums, peeks at the mud over her shoulder. Car tracks, multiple and fresh.

Jackpot.

He wonders how (y/n) knew almost exactly where to look for the military, but he won't ask. He doesn't want to know. Dutch has been an adept of intricacy for far too long, and Arthur has had to endure it. If he can find even a taste of simplicity in his last few hours, he'll prolong it for as much as he can.

"Can't've gotten too far by now." (Y/n) continues. "We can catch up if we hurry."

Arthur has to hold back a laugh, but can't refrain from shaking his head. A naive little thing she is. "Catch up? I'd like to see ya run for hours straight to keep up with some damn cars."

"They always stop in towns." (Y/n) argues. Arthur raises a brow, gestures for her to articulate her point more. "Y'know, because of old cars? More than you'd expect still have something in their tank. And almost no-one aside from the military uses fuel anymore, so..."

Arthur has to admit he's never thought of it that way. Sure, him and the gang haven't used such means of transportation for the past fifteen years, but then again, he feels kind of stupid for not having considered it.

"Well then. Let's track 'em down."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It's as easy said as it's done: (Y/n) is the first to spy the military. As soon as they find a decent vantage point on the top of a hill, she practically rips Arthur's borrowed rifle off her back and starts inspecting the situation through the scope.

"So, how're we gonna do this?" She asks. Arthur hums, motions for her to hand the weapon over.

He looks through the scope as well, and identifies a LUV, small but sturdy-looking on the edge of the makeshift camp the soldiers have set up.

"That one should be fine." (Y/n) speaks up out of nowhere, having noticed the vehicle Arthur was staring at. "On a scale of one to ten, how good are you with stealing cars?"

He cracks a smile, hands her back the scoping rifle. "Good enough to steal my dad's for a ride when I was fifteen."

"By hot-wiring, I hope?"

"What do ya take me for?" Arthur's smile shifts into a grin. (Y/n) returns it.

"Good. I'd say you keep quiet and only cause a ruckus after you're inside the car. I'll kill everything that gets too close."

Arthur has to stifle a smile at her borderline childish promise. "Don't go 'round wastin' bullets for a dyin' man. Just make every shot count."

(Y/n) nods, almost solemnly. How she can go from childish to dead serious in such a short span of time is baffling to Arthur, but he won't address it.

"As soon as I'm outta there, you make a run for it and wait for me, let's say—" Arthur turns around, has a look at the bottom of the hill. "By that tree over there."

(Y/n) gives him a thumbs up, then goes to find cover in some bushes. Arthur slides his backpack off, retrieves his baseball bat. He hopes, prays the old thing will last just a little while longer.

Weapon in hand and nothing left to lose, Arthur sneaks into the forgotten town. He creeps around old buildings like he's been there before, his sense of direction is unwavering. And yet navigating a labyrinth-like ghost town comes as naturally as breathing to him. Arthur slits two or three throats on his way to the car, but it's a price he's willing to pay.

"Does anyone even go up a rank these days? I swear it just feels like everyone's frozen in place." A woman's voice. Arthur peeks around the corner of a crumbling wall, notices two armed silhouettes standing beside the LUV he's gotten his eyes on.

"Of course they still do, but we're just cadets. Can't expect much just yet, we gotta stay loyal, yanno?" A male voice answers.

"Stay loyal to what exactly? Killing citizens if they don't obey us?"

"No, you genius. You're staying loyal to at least one meal a day, a bed to sleep in, and weapons at your disposal. Are you really gonna talk about nobleness when you've got all that?"

Arthur draws in a desperate breath. If he wants to steal the damn car, he can't have anyone around. Killing two people at a time, silently, is not one of his talents.

"Not nobleness, but it feels pointless in a way. Everything, I mean."

"Christ, you wanna join the Resistance too now, or what? Have a fucking look around. It's the apocalypse. Where have dreams like yours gotten that (y/n) from a few weeks back? She's being hunted, as we speak. Maybe she's even dead by now. Do you want that? No. So shut up and obey the orders, it's not that damn hard."

They know (y/n). Arthur's mind already wants to wander off, try to connect dots, but he urges himself to stay present. At least until he steals the car.

"Alright, Max, calm down. Never said I wanted to run off with the rebels."

The both of them chuckle at that.

"Right, well, I'll get back to it." One of them says. Steps follow.

"I'll see you around."

Arthur waits a minute longer, until the sounds have faded and only one silhouette remains. One person he can take down with ease.

He takes an empty bottle with him, prepares to smash it over their had. Just one more, quick and strong, and it'll be over wi—

The person ducks their head, turns around and places a kick against Arthur's knee. Arthur loses balance, but manages to muster the strength to lurch forward and pin the soldier to the ground. Their — actually, his — helmet falls off his head with the impact, Arthur throws the first punch to the man's face. His knuckles smear with blood from the impact.

Just a few more and the guy'll be unconscious, if not dead.

He prepares to deliver a second blow, something wraps around his biceps. Arthur's being pulled back, he hears a familiar voice.

"Wait, Arthur, don't!"

(Y/n).

He stops, the soldier crawls out from below him, clutching his broken nose. He looks at Arthur first — fear, hatred and confusion all blended in his expression. And then he looks at (y/n), who is pointing the rifle at him.

His mien turns unreadable. The soldier draws in a shaky breath, finally speaks.

"Jesus Christ, you gotta be kiddin' me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so unbearably long! I'm getting back into writing, so I'm a little slow for the time being, but updates'll (hopefully) be more frequent as of now. Thank you for your patience and sorry for the frankly quite unsatisfying chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to let you all know that I decided to do some minor changes to this fic and make it a plain ol’ zombie AU instead of a “The Last of Us” AU, mainly to make it accessible to people that don’t know the lore, but still want to enjoy this fic. I hope you all understand♥️

"You're still alive." (Y/n) says in something similar to disbelief as she stares up at the young man.

"Yeah, well, I don't go around trying to piss off every single division," He pauses, looks at (y/n) with venom in his gaze. "—unlike a certain someone. Don't act all surprised."

Arthur knows the tone and pace of the conversation before it's even started properly. It reminds him of John and Abigail's bickering, in a way.

"At least I'm not the person that left his girlfriend of five years to die!"

Arthur has to refrain from drawing in a breath of surprise. The other young man looks at (y/n) like she's insulted his entire bloodline, his expression is the embodiment of hurt and anger.

How perfect, Arthur thinks, now he's caught in the proximity of a military camp, right between two old acquaintances turned enemies.

He's lost track of their quite fiery conversation, he only looks back up when he notices the young man point his handgun at (y/n).

"You wouldn't dare." She growls with a wicked smile on her face, approaches him until the muzzle of his gun is glued to her forehead. "You've always been a fucking coward, Max."

Arthur closes his eyes when he hears some suspicious sounds. Steps. Multiple people, maybe, he can't quite tell with all the background noise that's going on. 

But he'd rather not risk getting caught. The conversation needs to end, and quick.

"I'm the coward? I'm the coward?! I'm not the one that ran away to—" (Y/n) seems to have the same thought as Arthur, she grabs the man's forearm and points his gun towards the sky. At the same time, Arthur hits the man over his head with the grip of his shotgun, knocking him unconscious.

He drops down to the cement like a ragdoll. 

"Same thought, same time, huh?" (Y/n) gives Arthur a grin as if they'd just shared an inside joke, he's inclined to return it.

But there's more pressing matters at hand. Arthur brings his index to his own lips, then points to his ears. A cute frown settles on (y/n)'s face as she focuses on the sounds around them. 

Surprise seeps through her neutral expression, she motions for the car, then points at Arthur. She needn't say more, he understands what she asks. 

He'll make quick work of stealing the damn thing. 

Meanwhile, (y/n) drags the young man they've just knocked out onto the backseat of the car, then secures his wrists and ankles together with some rope she finds in her backpack.

The engine rumbles, purring to life. Arthur smiles victoriously. His reckless youth finally provides some payoff. 

(Y/n) plops down beside him, pats his shoulder urgently. "The patrol we've heard, they— They're getting closer. You need to go, now."

"Already am." Arthur responds, starting to drive backwards. "Put on your seatbelt."

A bullet hits the back window, both of them duck instinctively. Arthur glances backwards, notices at least three armed men running towards them. And the fact that the bullet has only left an indent in the window, nothing more. The wonders of plexiglass.

"Drive, drive, drive!" (Y/n) urges him on, he stomps down on the pedal until it hits the floor. Dust whirls up behind them, Arthur feels himself being pushed back into his seat by how quickly they gain speed. (Y/n) looks through the damaged back window, and judging by the way her breath stutters, the news she bears can't be too good.

The rearview mirrors are all dirty, he's only got (y/n) to rely on.

"Oh fuck, oh christ, they're coming after us. I think— No, you don't need to know that." She plops back down in her seat, retrieves the rifle from her back.

Arthur gives her a urgent side-glance. "What exactly is it that I don't need t'know?"

She starts opening the window on her side, unbuckles her seatbelt.

"Like I said, nothing. I'm taking care of it." With that, she moves to kneel on the seat, then leans out of the window, starting to shoot at whatever is behind them. (Y/n) fires a few bullets, then yelps out in pain as she withdraws back inside. 

Arthur can only spare her the most fugitive of glances in favor of focusing on the bumpy road ahead, but he notices that a bullet has grazed her arm.

"Y'alright?"

"Yeah." Her tone is pressing, she sounds both angry and anxious. "Can you drive any faster?"

"Not if I don't plan on killin' the both of us." As he talks, Arthur pulls the wheel harshly to the left, avoiding a big rock in their way. 

(Y/n) curses under her breath, starts reloading the rifle. 

Arthur's foot almost slips off the pedal when a storm of bullets hits the back of their car. He'd recognize that steady dut, dut, dut anywhere. A fucking machine gun.

His mouth feels dry. He glances at (y/n) in horror, the awful sound of bullets stops for a second. Whoever is shooting at them must be reloading. Their back window remains unpenetrated, but if the previous process is repeated once, maybe twice more, that won't be the case any longer.

"I 'didn't need to know' about a truck with a goddamn machine gun, woman?!"

"Yeah, because you need to focus on the driving." (Y/n) looks around frantically as she talks, checking between the seats, then popping open the glovebox in search of anything useful.

Empty guns, ammunition that doesn't fit their weapons, a half empty bottle of whiskey, expired canned beans—

The bottle of whiskey!

Arthur and (y/n) both set their hands on top of the other's leg, they speak up at the same time.

"Molotowcocktail."

The look at each-other for a millisecond, then nod. 

(Y/n) grins briefly, then gestures towards Arthur. "Your knife."

Arthur holds the steering wheel with one hand, searches his belt with the other, retrieving the blade (y/n) had asked for.

She takes it from him in the blink of an eye, reaches towards the back seat. She cuts off a piece from the passed out passenger's shirt, simultaneously unscrews the bottle with her teeth.

The rain of bullets starts once more, Arthur lowers his head instinctively. (Y/n) returns to her seat as well, ducked low as she pours some whiskey over the rag, then stuffs it inside the bottle, leaving one end outside.

"Wait until they gotta reload, then throw." Arthur tells her. If (y/n) weren't so focused on lighting the rag on fire, she might've rolled her eyes.

"Don't worry, I'm not suicidal." 

Arthur nods, focuses on keeping the car steady.

The bullets stop. (Y/n) moved as quick as lightning, her feet are on the seat, her torso hangs out of the window, she holds onto the top of the car with one hand.

"Steady, Arthur!" She shouts when he accidentally drives over a bump.

"I'd like to see ya keep a car steady when you're drivin' through a damn field!"

He sees her draw in a breath, her whole body tensing.

"Don't drop that thing, we only have one!"

"I know!" (Y/n) responds, tosses the bottle upwards in the slightest before catching it again, as if to weigh out her throw. "Now shut up!"

Can't be long until they're finished loading, she needs to hurry—

The rearview mirrors flash orange, in spite of how filthy they are. Arthur hears distant screams.

(Y/n) swings herself back inside the car.

"Lost them for now. Keep driving."

As if he could ever dream of taking his foot off the gas pedal after everything that had just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have listened to the Uncharted soundtrack while writing this.


	11. Chapter 11

(Y/n) sits bonelessly in the car seat, clutching her injured arm, the smallest of proud smiles plays on her lips.

Fate has been kind to the both of them.

They're alive, more than just about, Arthur feels energy boil in the pit of his stomach, indicating the aftermaths of adrenaline. 

They've cheated death.

He can't bring himself to believe it, he's still alive, in spite of the infection spreading through his body, in spite of a machine gun being fired at him, in spite of everything, he's still standing. A miracle looks ordinary compared to what he's been blessed with.

"I reckon we lost 'em." He speaks up, ever so slowly lifting his foot off the gas pedal. (Y/n) shakes her head in response. 

"They're tenacious little fuckers. Keep going."

Arthur frowns, avoids one of the bigger bumps on the country road. "How do you know that?"

"I...um..." (Y/n) crosses her arms, shifts in her seat, then sighs. "Guess you could say I had some trouble with Uncle Sam. In the past."

A smirk tugs on the corner of Arthur's mouth as he adjusts the rearview mirror, which (y/n)'s been kind enough to wipe clean with her sleeve by now. Their guest is still asleep, he's missed the whole action.

"Yeah, figured as much." Arthur responds with one last glance at the passed out man's face.

What a surprise it'll all be for the poor guy once he wakes up. Kilometers away from home, hands bound together behind his back, on the backseat of a car that used to belong to his faction.

"What's the deal b'tween you 'n sleepin' backseat beauty, anyhow?"

"Sleeping backseat beauty..." (Y/n) repeats with a chuckle and a shake of her head. "His name's Max. And he's a piece of shit." 

Arthur grins. "I could tell."

(Y/n) leans back in her seat enough to put her feet on top of the glove compartment. She musters Arthur with a sharp gaze, it's clear she's trying to figure out what to tell him. And how much.

"We were...friends. Really good friends. Almost like siblings, I guess? Me, him, and two other people." 

She stops with the retelling of her story after that, but Arthur encourages her to continue with a gesture of his hand.

"Well, we had all ended up in the military when we were just kids and got raised together, guess that's where it all started. One of us, Rocco, my best friend, didn't exactly agree with everything going down in the military. He wanted to go join the rebels, and actually did once he'd turned...I dunno, twenty, maybe. To which me and Emma," She points behind herself, at their passenger "Emma being this idiot's girlfriend, decided we wanted to run away as well. She convinced Max to join. So there we were, all three, almost tasting freedom as we were cutting through the fence."

A smile, sad and bittersweet settles on her face. Arthur knows very well what she feels, he's well-acquainted with that sentiment of nostalgia for what could have been.

"Just as Emma was about to squeeze through the hole we'd cut into the fence, Max heard someone coming and did the first thing that came to mind — pointed a gun at me and his girlfriend, then started shouting insults. Once we got caught, Max claimed he'd been trying to stop us. He didn't...fucking hell...he didn't even bat an eye when the the patrol that caught us decided on the spot that we get executed. Emma got killed first, and that gave me just enough time to distract them, then squeeze through the hole we'd created in the fence."

(Y/n) falls silent, and, in Arthur's good opinion, cannot be blamed for it. She's bared something personal to him, and he's at a loss of words, damnit, cannot think of anything worthy to say.

But when (y/n) lifts her shirt just enough to show him pink, horizontal lines that slash across her back — scars — his breath hitches in his throat.

"The hole in the fence wasn't quite big enough, so that's the price I had to pay." She explains. "Aside from losing Emma."

Without realizing what exactly he's doing, Arthur reaches out, cups one of his huge hands around her side, and stroked his thumb from her spine to her ribs, following one of the scars. Goosebumps form under his fingertips. "I'm sorry."

Only when her breath stutters does he sober up enough to pull away. 

Why did he do that, why did he do that, why did he do—

"Well, either way, at least I got out alive." (Y/n) points at herself with a shy smile as she readjusts her tank top. 

"Not exactly a small price to pay for freedom." Arthur says.

(Y/n) nods in agreement, then glances at the young man on the backseat. "Unlike sleeping backseat beauty, who's practically getting chauffeured right into freedom as we speak."

"Save for the rope, o'course." Arthur remarks, and (y/n) shrugs. 

"I'm not going to kill him." She says it like it's obvious.

Arthur decides it best he stay silent for a second, and gather his words before he speaks. It feels like he's treading on delicate territory with (y/n)'s backstory.

"Why?" He asks, then realizes it might sound accusing, which is anything but the tone he was going for. "Why take him with us and not kill him?"

"Because I..." She wrings her hands, glances at the backseat with well-concealed, but still very much present pain. "I don't know. He's Max. Even after everything, he's still Max, and I want an explanation. And also, he might know more about where Rocco is than I do."

"Your best friend?" Arthur asks with a sideways glance. "That's why you was lookin' for the rebels? To find Robert—"

"Rocco." (Y/n) corrects. "But yeah. To find him, and join them."

A smile skips over (y/n)'s mien when she thinks of that Rocco guy, Arthur can't claim it doesn't leave an unpleasant tingle in his gut.

But then again, he'll be dead by tomorrow. His time is running out. No point in thinking about the hows and whys of his feelings on his literal deathbed.

Fabric rustles in the backseat, a pained grunt follows. Their guest is waking up, Arthur realizes.

"What the fu..." The young man tugs at his bound wrists, his eyes fly open. He musters Arthur in the rearview mirror, then (y/n), who has turned around to rest her chin atop the headrest and look at him playfully. "Where..."

"Sleep well, Maxie?" She asks with a smile.

That's enough to make the boy lose his temper and start wiggling around on the car seat like a rainworm on asphalt. "You don't have any idea what the hell you're doing, woman!" 

"I think I do." (Y/n) argues. "I tied you up, put you in the back of a car I stole from the military, and we're currently driving far, far away. Think I got a pretty good grasp of what I'm doing."

"They'll come after you." He says. "Everyone's gonna be out to kill you, and you're gonna be done for."

"Dontcha worry, kid, they did try." Arthur speaks up, adjusts the mirror to see him better. "Brought a truck with a machine gun and all."

"We took 'em down—" (Y/n) snaps her fingers. "—Just like that."

Max looks back and forth between the two of them, first in horror, which is then stifled with arrogance and disbelief.

"Keep the fairytales coming and I'll fall back asleep in no time."

(Y/n) sighs, not only from a lack of frustration, but also in amusement. "Look at that, he learned to crack jokes while I was gone."

"Look at that, you still haven't matured." He argues, tugs on his wrists once again. Arthur has to suppress a laugh — if this was (y/n)'s company for years, he can't blame her for her lack of patience with people. "Well, one of us had to grow up."

(Y/n) clears her throat, smile fading. "Not like Emma had the chance to. Did she, Max?"

That's enough to leave him staring at (y/n) with his mouth opened like a dead fish, retorts on the tip of his tongue, and yet out of the grasp of his mind. The best he can manage is a stutter — she has definitely hit a weak spot.

Satisfied with her victory, (y/n) lets herself fall back onto the seat. She taps her fingertips on Arthur's arm, he glances at her sideways.

"Can you pull over right there?" She points at a small, disfigured building on the side of the road.

He does as he's asked. The car slows as it's being driven around the structure so that it's concealed from passerby's that stick to the road. The place looks like something straight out of a weird dream — three blank concrete walls, unfinished. Steel enforcement wires stick out of their tops and the ground where the fourth wall should have been, there's no roof to speak of.

There's no infected around, either.

(Y/n) slams the car door open, bolting outside. She assesses her surroundings with a quick glance, then unlocks the exit for Max as well.

She doesn't need to call for Arthur — a nod is enough for him to know when his help is required.

Arthur picks Max up by his sides like he weighs nothing, then slings him over one shoulder like a potato sack.

(Y/n) makes her way towards the building and Arthur follows. Keeping up, however, is made difficult by Max' constant wiggling.

"Where the hell did you pick up this budget version of Rocco, huh?" Mac speaks up.

Arthur inhales sharply in surprise, but manages to stifle his frown before it bleeds through his stone-faced expression. What does that mean? Does Arthur by any chance resemble her best friend? If so, physically or behaviorally? Or was it just an attempt to accuse her of replacing that Rocco guy because of (y/n)'s remark about his girlfriend?

This is all too complicated for a dying man, Arthur thinks. He won't pay much mind to whatever Max has to spew out.

(Y/n) cares very little for Max' comments as well, it seems.

"Oh, you definitely have a preference when it comes to company. Tall, gruff, mean—" 

(Y/n) stops in the middle of the incomplete structure, Arthur lets Max fall to the floor ungracefully to shut him up.

The boy coughs from the impact, then gives a shit eating grin. "But this one's less charismatic than Rocco, that's for su—"

(Y/n) places her foot on his sternum, applies enough pressure to turn Max' coughs into heaves for air.

"Shut your mouth." She commands. "I ask the questions here, you only answer."

"And what does walmart Rocco over there do?" He nods at Arthur, then receives a kick to the ribs from (y/n) before Arthur can hope to come up with an answer.

"I think he's gonna sit back and watch how I break your ribs if you call him that one more time."

He laughs, but it sounds very strained. Even the smallest of breaths must be painful in Max' position, Arthur realizes. 

"You're gonna break the ribs of a man that's hogtied? How mighty of you."

"Says the guy that pointed a gun at his girlfriend to save his own skin." (Y/n) sneers, then unholsters her gun. Max swallows thickly, chest puffing out under her foot when she aims the weapon at his head. "How badly does the lieutenant wanna find me?"

"Got quite the price on your head." Max explains with a small malevolent smirk. "The lieutenant promised twenty five cans of bacon and two gorgeous scoping rifles to the one that sets their hands on ya first."

The boy's glance shifts towards Arthur — Max somehow manages to look at him with superiority in spite of his rather pathetic position with tied wrists and ankles. 

"What else?" (Y/n) insists.

"What else am I supposed to tell you? If you and substitute Rocco really did what you said, you're probably worth a lot more by now." He tugs on his wrists again when she starts lifting her foot off his chest. Max sighs. "Can you stop the whole intimidating game? No need to prove how tough you are, I won't do anything stupid. Just give me the dignity to...y'know...stand, at least."

(Y/n) doesn't seem exactly fond of the idea, but she walks over to Arthur, fishes out his blade from his belt, then cuts up the rope that secures Max' legs together. Arthur grabs him by the shoulders and lifts him onto his feet. His hands are left bound as a precaution measure.

"Tell me about Rocco." (Y/n) jumps to the next subject, unmoved by what she's just found out. Arthur can't quite fathom it. Sure, he wasn't exactly popular with anyone aside from Dutch, but he'd never gotten to the point where he was hunted down by the military. Good thing he won't be around for that.

The closer his death gets, the more comforting it is.

"What am I supposed to tell you? He left, (y/n), five years ago, and he never cared enough to look back." Max answers. "I know you like to think he's still out there, somewhere, but the truth is he's either forgotten you or he's dead."

"You're wrong." All of a sudden, she looks like a raging bull. If he'd caused that expression, Arthur may have just felt a tad shaken up — but Max shows nothing of the sort. 

"Face it." The boy spits back on the same tone. "Rocco is either dead or doesn't give the smallest flying shit about you anym—"

Max could never hope to continue his sentence. (Y/n) head-butts him hard enough to send him stumbling backwards. Unable to regain balance because of his bound hands, Max hits his head with a dull thwack! against the concrete, loud enough to echo. Once against the wall, the second time against the floor.

A puddle of blood spreads around Max' skull. (Y/n) stares at him in horror of what she's just done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! I stayed up quite a bit to get this all done, so there more than certainly are some writing errors in there. I hope it wasn’t all too confusing with (y/n)’s backstory, and if there are any questions/things you didn’t understand, do drop them in the comments. I’ll do my best to clarify! Thank you for reading, as always♥️


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so unbearably long! This chapter turned out a bit lengthier than expected, and school is really kicking my ass right now. There’s definitely some mistakes in here, but I felt like I’d had kept you all waiting more than enough. Enjoy!

When confronted with death, (y/n) runs. Maybe it's not what she's been taught to do, but rather what she's figured works best in predicaments like these.

She stares at Max' dead body with nothing but fear in her gaze, then down at her own two palms, and it connects. She realizes the blood is on her hands — both literally and figuratively. 

Accepting one's own fault is never easy, Arthur knows that, understands it all too well. For (y/n), it might be even more difficult.

She backs away, drags in a fragile breath. "Oh my god." Her voice stutters and sways from the storm of emotions inside her. Akin to a spooked deer, she turns around suddenly, swiftly, and looks for the quickest escape route. Out of the weird structure that surrounds them, over the fields, she wants to run to where the sky meets the earth and then further. Arthur grabs a hold of her wrist.

There's no trace of the familiar sensibility that defines human nature left in her expression — (y/n) is driven by emotions and nothing else. She tugs on her arm forcefully, almost enough to rip it out of Arthur's grip. Almost. 

Hosea would know what to do, Arthur catches himself thinking as she stares at him. Hosea would know exactly what words to whisper to her and just how to pet her hair to make the pain go away, but Arthur's not Hosea. 

So he takes the next best approach he can come up with. 

"You couldn't have known." He tells her, still holds her wrist firmly like he's afraid that she'll run for the hills if not handled with utmost care. When tears start welling up in her eyes, he dares to shorten the distance between them with only one step. 

"I killed him." Her voice is strained, a monument to all the screams she is holding inside. Everything about her reminds Arthur of a boiling pot of brew when it's being heated too much for an extended period of time. It can't be long until it spills, until it's all too much. He almost catches himself thinking he might burn his fingers when he reaches for her other wrist to make her face him. "I killed him!" (Y/n) repeats, then looks at Arthur in something that mirrors disbelief when he doesn't pull away. She sniffs, her voice becomes meek. "I killed the closest thing I ever had to a fucking brother."

(Y/n) says it like she wants him to be disgusted with her and what she's done.

Tears well in the corner of her eyes and Arthur can hear out the difficulty in her breathing. It's a feeling he's long forgotten, but which is still known to him — the knot in one's throat that comes from stifling tears. 

"Just breathe." Arthur tells her, then inhales demonstratively. "With me."

He holds her hands in a tight grip, looking at her in a way that's soft, but stern. She stays like that, for how long, Arthur can't tell, and melts into the rhythm he's created, mirrors his gaze until she finds a grain of something familiar in it, something that reminds her of peace and better days, and her shoulders slacken. When a stuttered exhale leaves her lungs and her jaw unclenches, Arthur loosens his hold. His thumbs draw circles into the heels of her palms.

"Bein' sad, angry and everythin' else...that's alright." She sniffles, but Arthur can tell that the worst is already over with. At least for now — her thoughts are going to haunt her in moments of idleness, he's sure of it. That's a problem for later, though. "But acting on what you're feelin' is gonna do nothin' 'side from gettin' you in trouble." He does his best attempt at an encouraging half-smile. "I should know that better than most people."

And then he lets go of her hands, only nods towards the car. "Let's get outta here."

(Y/n) agrees.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"We should've at least buried him." (Y/n) mumbles. She hasn't talked even a word for the past two hours, Arthur can't help but glance her way in surprise when she speaks up.

"Don't think we shoulda stuck around there for that long." Arthur responds, then takes a glimpse at the compass he's set between the seats. They're still going north, good. "B'sides. You said you wanted to find that friend o' yours. Ronald."

(Y/n) snorts in amusement, which leaves Arthur feeling...unusually proud. "Rocco." She corrects, though her voice sounds better now. Not by a lot, but she's getting there.

Not like anyone can afford to grieve for too long in a world like theirs.

A glance outside the window only improves his mood further. The sun is setting with a gorgeous, saturated palette of orange and pink. Even though they're driving on an old highway, they're passing through a wide, empty field, stretched as far as his eyes can see. 

It reminds him of bright, carefree days spent in so much bliss. How much he's lost — how much the humans have lost. A world beautiful beyond measure, a world they thought was only theirs to thrive in. A world they thought they could control.

How wrong they'd been.

The roots of the pandemic are unknown, but it has often crossed Arthur's mind that it may be just nature's way of weeding out a problem that had gotten out of hand. Humans, to be precise.

So now, here they were. Dethroned from the food chain, starved, alone and helpless, dignity lost, reduced to the very level of neanderthals — but with fancier weapons.

It strikes him that soon, he'll contribute to nature's cause with his own death, just like so many others before him. Perhaps he is, after all, contributing to a greater cause he can't quite understand. Who knows? 

Either way — his demise can come, he's at peace with it now. For the most part, at least.

Still, part of him wishes he could stay just a little while longer. For (y/n), he thinks. Or maybe he still isn't able to mentally comprehend he's already damned. That his time is up, and that he has no say in it. Truth be told, some part of him hasn't gotten used to dying just yet.

His gaze finds her, on the passenger seat, still looking straight ahead dully. She has a cut on her arm, Arthur remembers the bullet that had grazed her, back when they'd taken down the tank with the machine gun. It seems centuries ago, not mere hours.

Perhaps life truly does slow down before you die.

"You're bleedin'." Arthur notes, nods at her injury.

(Y/n) glances his way, then down at her arm. A disheartened shrug seems to be the best she can muster, but Arthur can't blame her for it in the least. "Had worse."

"We oughta pull over soon anyways. It's empty country 'round here, reckon there'll be little to no infected." Arthur looks ahead, already searching for a good spot to lay low for the night. None so far. "I'll help ya with it, then...well, I guess we'll see after that. It's for the best if I leave, I guess."

(Y/n) furrows her brows, looks at him with well-defined confusion before it all clicks.

It takes her a second to answer. But they've got nothing but time for now.

"You can stay." (Y/n) answers. "Tie your wrists and ankles together as a precaution and all that just like last night, but other than that…"

Arthur raises a brow, looks at her skeptically. Sure, she's taken all the blows that have come her way with an admirable bravado, but would putting a bullet through his head in the morning not only worsen her whole situation?

As if she's reading his thoughts, (y/n) shrugs once again.

"I dunno...I think it'd be kind of shitty to spend your last night on earth alone."

Arthur smiles.

"Thank you."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It's quiet in the woods, reminiscent of their camp from the night before. A campfire flickers bright in front of (y/n), framing her features in a soft orange light. She looks peaceful, but her mind is far away, Arthur can tell. And he can't blame her, so is his.

Laying on his back on his bedroll, wrists bound together in case he falls asleep, arms folded atop his chest, he thinks about Hosea, about Dutch, about John, about everything and everyone he's left behind. What are they doing now? Is Javier strumming some gentle tune on his old guitar? Are Karen and Bill getting drunk off their faces with whatever alcohol they can get their hands on? Is Dutch on the top of that dumb wooden crate of his again, delivering one of those speeches meant to instill hope? Is Hosea playing Dominoes with Mary-Beth and cheating his way to certain victory? Or is Mary-Beth perhaps winning through nothing but sheer righteousness and strategy?

When (y/n) starts humming a tune that's familiar, Arthur raises a brow and looks her way. He's been disrupted from his mental travels to a place that's far, far away, but he can't complain. It feels oddly calming to return to reality and...certain doom.

"What'cha doin'?"

(Y/n) draws in a breath, shifts in front of the campfire. With a final shake of her head and a half-laugh that sounds sheepish, she begins talking.

"When I was all alone, just after Emma had died...I sang a lot. It kept my mind busy, I guess. Away from everything else." Her eyes are downcast, almost like she's embarrassed to admit that. "I was trying that right now. Sounds kinda stupid to say it out loud, though, doesn't it?"

Arthur shakes his head, smiles.

"Nah. Ain't gonna lie, I sometimes sing too, 'specially when I'm by m'self. Keeps you sane, it does." He shifts to lay on his stomach, props himself up with bound elbows. It's not easy in the slightest, but it's better safe than sorry, he supposes. "What were you singin'? Sounded familiar."

She smiles right back, albeit only halfheartedly. "Don't even ask."

"C'mon." He insists, back cracking when he stretches. "Just sing the...say, first ten seconds, n' if I don't guess it you can..." With a focused furrow of his brows, he tries to think of a deal she can't refuse. "You can have some o' the expired candy from the bottom of my backpack." 

This time, (y/n) laughs. A full-fledged, amused laugh. Arthur feels warm inside all of a sudden. "Candy, really?" She asks. "What kind?"

"Some skittles I found a month ago." Arthur says, then adds a vital detail. "Tropical flavor edition."

"They all taste the same anyways." She moves to sit up on her bedroll, hesitates, then seems to give in with a sigh. "But okay, deal."

And with that, she starts humming. This time, Arthur can tell what song it is right off the bat. He's often heard Uncle sing it in the morning on his improvised banjo, and he remembers how sometimes Charles would join in with his harmonica. 

When (y/n) stops after the first ten seconds, counted down on her fingers as proof, she looks at him expectantly.

"Life is old there, older than the trees." Arthur continues where (y/n) has left off, very much off-key and sluggishly performed, but performed nonetheless. "Younger than the..." He pauses, can't remember the word. "...somethin', blowin' like the breeze."

"Mountains." (Y/n) corrects. "Younger than the mountains, growing like the breeze."

Arthur frowns. "'Growing like a breeze'? I don't think so."

"No. It’s ‘growing like a breeze’, take my word for it."

"Why would a breeze grow?"

"Dunno." (Y/n) shrugs. "Because it's getting, like...stronger, I guess?"

"Whoever taught you that song did a horrible job at it."

"Oh yeah?" She smiles again, and so does Arthur. (Y/n) shifts to sit closer to the fire, and him. "What lyrical genius taught you the words, then?"

Well, the truth is quite embarrassing to admit. But he can't find the energy to make something up on a whim, so he settles for truth nonetheless. "His name was...uh...” What was his name? “Everyone called him Uncle."

She grins now. "You don't even know his name?"

"Does it matter?"

(Y/n) shrugs with only one shoulder. "Guess not."

She then lets herself fall onto her back, takes a deep breath in. Slowly, her face turns towards him, and the look in her eyes is something Arthur can't decipher. "Tell me about him. Uncle. Or just about everyone in your group that mattered to you."

Arthur looks down at his bound wrists, but if he closes his eyes, nothing's changed at all. He finds himself back in front of the campfire, surrounded by many familiar faces, and finds that a little piece of his soul belongs to each and every one of them — save for Micah. But that's another story.

"If you're doin' this outta pity, then you don't gotta." Arthur tells her. "You got better things to do that listen to some dying man's stories."

She offers him a glance so gentle that he realizes he'd forgotten what softness even looked like.

"But I'd still like to hear it." (Y/n) sits back up, legs crossed, eyes resting on him like she's ready to store everything he's about to tell her somewhere safe and untouchable. "So that if I ever stumble across any of them...I can tell them about you."

Warmth floods his chest at her words.


	13. Chapter 13

When he awakes, Arthur's not blinded by a bright light, not staring at the face of a deity. There's nothing but the pale morning sky up above, and the quiet forest around him. His back still aches, his throat's still dry. His chest still rises and falls with every breath, he still feels last night's cold rooted deep inside his bones.

Arthur's alive, against all odds, he's still alive.

Why? 

He'll be damned if he knows.

When Arthur stirs, blinking away the tiredness from his eyes, he hears the click of a loaded gun.

"Wait!" He says, glancing in the source of the sound. (Y/n) holds a revolver aimed at him, the slightest of trembles in her arms. Her eyes glimmer in the early morning sun, first with sadness, and now, confusion. "I ain't—...I'm still here."

A breath leaves her tense frame as her shoulders slacken, but confusion remains. She doesn't understand whats and hows, but she trusts him enough to drop her gun and kneel beside his form to reach for his bound wrists. She undoes the knot with practiced ease, then stares at the marks the rope has left behind.

"But, you..." (Y/n) pauses, frowns. "You said it was two days ago. It was two days ago."

Arthur gives a short nod, then shifts to untie his ankles as well. "I know." 

(Y/n) plops down beside him on the bedroll.

"Are you sure a zombie bit you?" She continues. "Maybe it was some dog or something, and you just didn't—"

Arthur shakes his head. "Take my word for it. It was a zombie, 'm sure."

A heavy pause follows. Arthur can practically hear the gears turning in her head as she tries to make sense of it all — and he respects it. Mainly because he himself is too tired to try, his mind is still sleep-addled, he needs a second, maybe two. Some coffee sounds good, but that's a distant dream.

"Then how...?" She asks. "Everyone I know says just the luckiest still have two days left, but for you, it's been—"

"More than that. I know." Arthur rolls up the rope that bound his wrists, stores it neatly in his backpack, then rolls back his shoulders.

"Well, how are you feeling? Nauseous? Dizzy?" When he shakes his head, she shifts to sit in front of him, then brings a palm to his forehead and the other to hers. "You don't have fever either."

Arthur shifts away from her, more out of instilled instinct than will — it's unusual for someone to reach out towards him without ill intent.

"Maybe your...immune system's really strong and fighting off the virus for longer than average?" (Y/n) suggests something that sounds like the least outlandish explanation one could think of (not like Arthur has thought of many himself, but he digresses).

So he nods and shrugs at the same time. "Could be."

He's been disappointed by both himself and fate time after time. Arthur won't bother putting too much faith into something that's pure luck. Maybe he'll already turn by noon, why should he waste energy on getting his hopes up?

Truth be told, part of him is annoyed. Annoyed with the fact that he's still alive, that he's still been cursed with having to pull through all of this. He'd been hoping for an ending, not a grand one by any means, but an ending. Some peace and quiet, a break from all of this.

But then again, looking back at how miserable his life was, how many souls he'd wronged and killed, maybe he'd never deserved any of that to begin with. How foolish of him to believe he'd be granted such an easy death. 

"We better keep movin'." Arthur groans as he gets up, back cracking with even the smallest movement. He misses his cot dearly. As he starts to pack up his things and kick dirt into the dead campfire, (y/n) comes up to him. "All the way up north, 'til we find those rebels o' yours."

"But what if—" She begins, sets her hand atop his shoulder to catch his attention. "What if you're not going to die, neither today nor tomorrow? Don't you want to go back to your group?"

It's surprising to hear something like that — not because it's (y/n), but because he's not used to hearing questions that regard his preferences or wishes.

Arthur shakes his head. "What if I die on the way back? Hell knows how long I still got until this damn...thing eats me up from the inside."

"What if you're immune?"

Arthur frowns, then laughs dryly. "Ain't ever heard of anyone bein' immune to this."

"Maybe you're the first one." When she sees him sigh in exhausted desperation and turn towards the car, she grabs a hold of his wrist. "Here, listen. I'll make you an offer — a good one."

Arthur looks her up and down with a raised brow, crosses his arms before he gestures for her to continue.

"You've been...very kind to me, ever since we met. With the car, and by fighting alongside with me, you helped me a lot. So I think it's fair I thank you by letting you have the car and go back, and I'll continue on foot. I've got time to find the rebels, lots of time, but you don't know how much you've got left."

For a second, he can't tell if this is all some stupid trick to make fun of him, but judging by (y/n)'s expression, she means it, sincerely. She's granting him so much kindness under what could almost be regarded as an excuse. Sure, he's helped, but not enough to have earned something as valuable as a car. 

"I won't take ya up on it." Arthur says simply, then pushes past her, to the front seat door. "Let's get goin'."

She will not be so easily brushed off, it seems. (Y/n) puts herself between him and the car one last time. Her glance is so intense that Arthur feels like it's piercing right through him in ways he'll never understand.

"What about Hosea, John, Abigail and Dutch and everyone else? You're just going to act like they don't exist anymore?"

Her words hurt much harder than he'd ever like to admit. For the first time in a long while, he finds himself at loss of words, without a sharp, threatening reply at hand. 

She knows too much.

He's told her too much.

When Arthur doesn't answer, she insists. "Why don't you want to go back?" 

Arthur steps closer, drags his shoulders backwards in an attempt to intimidate (y/n) into dropping the whole subject. It appears she's seen much more fear-inducing things than his expression, since she doesn't back down one bit. She raises her chin to meet his gaze. "What are you so afraid of, Arthur?"

That's enough, she's gone too far. 

Her guess about the gang's situation is blind, but it hits the nail on the head like nothing else — because Arthur is afraid of turning back. He is afraid of what he's left behind. He is afraid of what's become of the people he abandoned, he's utterly terrified of them finding out he'd deserted them and that he's still alive. Dutch would never believe him. No one would believe him.

They'd think he was a traitor. A coward.

"I told you about them—" Arthur pauses, he realizes he's talking through a clenched jaw. "Because I was supposed to die. Not because I trusted you, not because you pretended to care. Only 'cause I was dyin'. So don't." He steps closer, (y/n) moves backwards this time. "Ever. Mention them again."

She casts her glance downwards — he's hurt her.

When his words have such an effect on his enemies, Arthur feels unusually proud. Proud of how he managed to intimidate someone by sheer size, words and gestures, but now he feels none of it.

Because (y/n)'s not an enemy. 

He's just hurt the only person that could ever believe that he's not some scum of the earth liar. He's hurt the person that's been his partner in crime, his makeshift family for the past two days. He's hurt the person he'll probably die with, because he's not going back.

But apologizing's never been his strong suite. So he takes a step back, slackens his posture to appear less threatening, then gestures to the passenger seat.

"Let's get goin'."


	14. Chapter 14

He's always liked long car drives. It gives him time to think, but doesn't allow his thoughts to get out of hand. Peace of mind can often be found somewhere between the white highway lines, or in this case, the old, cracked concrete. Driving is, in Arthur's good opinion, the most sacred form of meditation — the golden middle between thinking and not thinking all.

(Y/n)'s been silent for the past few hours, sitting cross-leggedly beside him and staring out the window.

There's an unpleasant feeling in Arthur's gut when he thinks about the hurt look in her eyes back when he'd snapped at her. He wants to apologize, truly does, but everything he wants to say sounds stupid in his head. Once it would be said aloud, he fears it'd be even worse.

So he keeps to himself.

Hosea would disagree of what he's doing right now, he thinks briefly. Mary-Beth and Tilly would encourage him to open up, speak his mind. Karen would probably tell him to drink some whiskey and grow a pair to say sorry.

But none of them are here, unfortunately. He won't ever see them again.

Arthur hears fabric rustle and looks (y/n)'s way briefly: She's crammed a book out of her backpack. It's, small, about as big as the palm of her hand, thin, and matte black titled 'Aphorisms on love and hate'.

She starts leafing though it without bothering with the text. At first, Arthur thinks she might be looking for a specific page, but she dwells for too long on each individual one for that to be the case.

A few seconds pass before he realize that there are sketches inside the book, scribbled on top of the text, some in blue pen, others in pencil. Portraits. They're not detailed by any means (unlike his drawings), but they capture the emotions with unmatched ease.

Arthur has to remind himself to keep his eyes on the road.

"What're ya readin'?"

As soon as he speaks up, Arthur feels the need to defenestrate himself right then and there. Good way to start a conversation after he's just insulted her.

(Y/n) looks his way with a disgruntled frown. "What's it to you?"

Arthur sighs, tightens his grip around the steering wheel, then shifts in his seat. It's not a rare occurrence for him to wish he could turn back time to fix his mistakes, but by god, he's never wished for it quite as much as he does now.

"Just thought they looked...nice." He doesn't think he's ever expressed himself quite this clumsily ever since he passed the age of fifteen. "The uh...drawings inside, I mean."

(Y/n) clasps the booklet shut, looks him up and down in a distrustful fashion before she sighs annoyedly.

"Yeah, well, they're not mine." She answers plainly. (Y/n) unzips her backpack to put the booklet back inside. When she looks his way, Arthur's heart clenches at the hurt in her eyes. "Not that you would care though."

"If this is 'bout what I said this morn—"

(Y/n)'s hands ball into fists in her lap, she grits her teeth. "Yes, it's about what you said this morning!"

Arthur slumps into the seat, wishes it would just swallow him up whole so that he wouldn't ever have to talk to anyone again. All he does is cause pain, anger and guilt.

"It's pretty shitty to realize that someone you considered a friend was only sticking around because they were a selfish ass. But hey, maybe that's just me, I don't know."

So that's what she believes he'd been doing? Clinging onto her because he didn't want to die alone? 

That's not it, certainly not. He doesn't mind dying alone, never did, but he'd been offered company. You'd have to be an idiot to turn down someone that can watch your back in a world like this.

And he wanted to help her, he remembers. That's why even entered that barn, that's why he killed the zombies. Because he's always had that annoying little part of him that wants nothing more than to be useful.

Selfishness is on the very bottom of the list of reasons. 

Besides, he never had anything to lose.

"You've known me for two days." Arthur argues, tries to mask his guilt. "Almost three now. I wouldn't call someone I jus' met a friend."

Why did he say that. Why did he say that?

(Y/n) shifts towards him. One corner of her mouth perks up, the fire she was spitting mere seconds ago turns into something more calm, but ten times as deadly.

A realization.

"And yet I seem to know more things about you than you'd like me to, don't I?"

Arthur scoffs dryly, avoids a pothole before glancing at her. "Don't get a head o' yourself, you know 'bout my old group. That's it. Ain't nothin' special 'bout that."

"Didn't seem like it this morning." When he draws in a stuttering breath, she knows it was a hit below the belt. "But now that you mentioned it's not special, maybe you could explain something to me. Especially since we're not friends and all, you wouldn't mind, right?" There's no time for him to answer. She crosses her arms, looks at him with a bravado that's yet to be matched. "What is it about being alive that makes you so angry?"

"I. Ain't. Angry." He insists. "Never was."

"Then what was it?" Her patience has run quite low, she looks at him almost the way she'd looked at that soldier she killed in that abandoned house, back when they'd just met. "Hate? Selfishness? Or because of me?"

Arthur shakes his head. "No, that—" He sighs. "I ain't—"

"What is it, then? Huh? Were you disgusted?" When he gives no answer, (y/n) continues. "Afraid?"

Involuntarily, Arthur stomps down on the brakes. The car is brought to a brusque, unexpected halt, tires squeaking.

But after that, it's all quiet.

(Y/n) huffs, but Arthur can deduce no emotion from it, and he doesn't have nearly enough courage to look at her face.

"You were afraid." It's a conclusion, a statement. Not judgmental nor reproachful. When she talks again, her voice is soft in a long forgotten way. "Why?"

Arthur sighs again, bites his lip. Words have never come easily, but now, it feels like everything he's ever avoided saying throughout his whole life is finally too much, far too much, and the dam is breaking, and he wants to tell her about all the anguish and fear and self-hatred, but he can't, he can't, it's too much. Too much to ever put into words, to ever explain lucidly in its totality, he could never—

"Because you left them behind?" Her approach is careful but tactful. "Your group?"

He feels his shoulders relax and jaw unclench, even though the tension had felt natural mere seconds ago.

Arthur nods, runs a hand through his hair.

"Yeah." He swallows. That dreaded feeling of a knot in his throat is there again, he'd almost forgotten it. It's familiar once again. "Because I was supposed to die."

(Y/n) looks at him with so much understanding and care that it's reminiscent of Hosea, almost.

"N' because no matter what I chose to do, I'd be a traitor. A coward."

"Hey." (Y/n) shifts towards him, sets her hand on his shoulder. "That's not true."

Arthur huffs dryly, shakes his head. "Real kind o'ya, but I don't need you to sugarcoat it. It's jus' that simple: F' I go back, no-one's gonna believe me, say it was a dog bite n' I lied to them. N' if I don't come back, then I'm leavin' em behind."

"Sorry for getting mad at you. I...didn't think about it that way." (Y/n)'s hand slides off his shoulder, she sinks back into her seat. Suddenly, she chuckles. "To be honest, I thought you were pissed because I was such dreadful company that you couldn't wait to die."

Arthur can't suppress an amused chortle of his own. "You serious?"

"Yeah."

As he turns the engine back on and begins to drive, he grins at (y/n). "I mean, now that ya mention it, maybe that was part o' the reason—"

The shoulder she'd been squeezing gently seconds ago receives a playful slap.

"Hey!"

"Simmer down, I was jokin'." Arthur smiles her way. "You're quite alri—"

He goes quiet when he hears a bleep, then looks down at the blinking light beside the car's speedometer. It doesn't bear any good news.

"Shit, we need gas." 

"I saw a sign beside the road, a few minutes back. There's a lake resort nearby, maybe we can find some broken down cars there. It was called Lake Ozkork or something, I think."

The name rings a bell, even though (y/n) doesn't remember it in perfect detail.

Lake Ozark.

He knows the name, it's an urban legend around these parts by now. A whispered warning in Hosea's voice, that he should never set foot there.

"We ain't goin there." Arthur says, (y/n) frowns. "That place is like the damn Israel of Missouri."

(Y/n) frowns, gestures for him to explain his point further.

"Everyone wants a piece of the action. There's an old hydroelectric power plant there, which was brought back in working order a few years back, so now that there's electricity... People are fightin' for it. Lots o' people."

(Y/n) nods, chews on her lip as she thinks. She looks at the blinking light beside the speedometer, then outside the window.

"I don't think we can get to any other cities in time, though. I wouldn't go through any zombie-infested place without a car, and since you said Ozkork is—"

"Ozark," Arthur corrects.

"Right, Ozark. Since it's so crowded, there can't be too many infected there. Besides, I don't think anyone would mind us taking some gas and then leaving, right? It's the electricity they're after, you said it yourself."

Arthur crosses his arms, then pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Alright, we...we can go there. Under one condition." (Y/n) looks at his attentively, he continues. "One of us stays in the car, behind the wheel. If we stumble across anyone, 'n I mean anyone, we don't talk. We both get in the car, drive away, as far as this thing takes us, n' them we run."

(Y/n) huffs in what seems to be amusement. "Jesus, aren't you paranoid."

"Don't got much of a choice when it comes to the lowlife that's taken over Ozark."

With a raise of her brow, (y/n) speaks up. "Wait, you know the people that live there, like, personally?"

He shrugs. "Guess you could say that."


	15. Chapter 15

(Y/n)'s eyes widen in wonder when she sees city lights in the distance. It looks like the stars themselves have descended onto the earth — a rare sight, a sign of civilization, a sweet reminder of what once was. And yet, it's not that which he can't take his eyes off of — no, Arthur can't turn away from (y/n), not even if he wanted to. A smile graces her features, she looks like a child watching Saturday morning cartoons, and he feels tempted to open his diary right then and there and immortalize her in a sketch.

But he can't, so he dedicates every little detail to memory, with a promise to himself that it will all find its place on paper in a few hours if they're lucky.

He savors the momentary peace like it's rare and divine — because it is. When (y/n) speaks up, her voice is laced with a soft kind of delight he has never heard before.

"Woah. I can't remember how long it's been ever since I've seen...lights at night that weren't the stars." She whispers, props her hands on top of the glovebox to rise out of her seat and have a better look at the distant lake resort. She turns to look at Arthur, starts talking at a much quicker pace. "Even the quarantine zones, most power plants had just stopped working after the epidemic, because no-one bothered to bring them back in working order. I've only heard about a few ones that had actual electricity at night—" (Y/n) cuts herself off and huffs, perhaps with the realization that she'd started to ramble. When she tucks a strand of hair away from her face, is when Arthur finally looks away. "I guess I ... never realized just how pretty they were until now."

Arthur can't quite think of what to say, he finds she's expressed whatever it is that he's feeling well enough. Besides, there's no point in ruining the wonderful atmosphere she's created with some worthless input of his.

"Cat got your tongue?" (Y/n) says after a few seconds of silence, Arthur swallows. "Or do you see stuff like this every other day?"

"Nah, I'm just..." He sighs, then runs a hand through his hair. "Don't want nothin' t' go wrong."

"Nothing will. We waited for nightfall specifically so that it'd be harder for them to stop us. If we're careful enough, no-one will even know we've been there."

"Reckon yer right." He sighs, then connects the two wires to start the car. "Ready when you are."

(Y/n) smiles. "Let's go then, cowboy."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"You stay." Arthur says as he pulls into the parking lot of a supermarket at the very edge of the resort. It looks haunted, almost, especially this late at night. Lit up windows are a few streets away, and they don't soothe his nerves in any way. But there are three cars nearby, Arthur figures that's enough to get lucky. "N' get b'hind the steerin' wheel. I'll get the fuel."

(Y/n) nods wordlessly, slides into his spot the moment he exits the vehicle. She gives him a thumbs up when he glances at the window fugitively before walking to the trunk of the car to retrieve a gas can and a hose.

Arthur works tactically— he's done this before. Long, long ago, he'd been merely fifteen or sixteen and stupid. 

But not stupid enough to forget how it's done.

He kneels beside the car that's closest to theirs, inserts the hose, brings the other end to his lips and sucks. 

No luck, of course not. The tank is empty.

He repeats the process on the second one, so pessimistic that he can't quite believe it when the bitter, chemical stench of fuel invades his mouth and leaves him gasping for air.

Part of him wants to smile when all the shenanigans he'd done flash in his mind, but Arthur knows better than that. He needs his focus here, now, on getting this over with as quickly as possible. 

The gas ends up being enough to fill up the tank of their car entirely. 

Arthur can't help but think that lady luck is on their side, just this once. No-one's seen them yet, their tank is full, and he didn't even spend more than 5 minutes on the entire process.

(Y/n) motions for him to get inside, he shakes his head.

There's one last car to check. Some extra fuel can't do any harm.

Arthur gestures for her to stay put and keep quiet, then hurries to the very edge of the parking lot, where the last car is. 

He drops to his knees, positions the hose.

Come on, he thinks, just this once. Just this once, let luck be on his side entirely.

And for a second he believes it, when he tastes fuel again and rushes to store it all in the can, ignoring the stench that's spread throughout his entire mouth and nose, he grins. 

About goddamn time fate was kind to him.

"Hands 'bove yer head."

Arthur's stomach drops.

He can talk his way out of this, he tells himself. Or fight, worst case scenario, though that might cause a bit of a ruckus. "Listen, I ain't...got anythin' to do with all fo this. I jus' needed some gas, 'm passin' through is all."

"I said hands 'bove yer head 'n turn 'round, ya tool. Ain't here to negotiate."

The cold muzzle of a gun against the back of his head is convincing enough to make him comply.

So Arthur does as he's asked, raises his hands, rises to his feet, then turns around to look at the man.

Rather small of stature, but with curly dark locks and a missing tooth, he grins at Arthur lazily as he points a rifle at him. He's young still, maybe twenty.

This one should be easy to overwhelm.

"This is O'Driscoll country. 'F I were you, friend, I'd be runnin' for my life just 'bout now—"

Arthur lurches forward, grips the young man's rifle with both hands, shoves its grip into his face. A dull crack follows. Next thing he knows, the stranger has collapsed onto his back, holding onto his nose.

Arthur points the rifle at him, but the mischievous, knowing glint in the stranger's eye is far from gone. It unsettles him in ways he could never hope to explain,.

"Wouldn't do that 'f I were you." The stranger warns, his tone has grown darker and even meaner than before.

Arthur reloads the rifle to make a statement. "I ain't here t'negociate, friend."

"That's good." The stranger looks behind him, Arthur follows his gaze. "The boys ain't either."

Four silhouettes appear from behind a building, practically armed to the teeth, and all pointing weapons of their own at Arthur.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit.

Arthur whirls around, glances at the car. (Y/n) is at the ready, two guns in each hand, meeting his gaze, waiting for a sign. 

The others must've not noticed her yet. 

But this battle isn't hers. Arthur could never forgive himself if she got in trouble with someone as awful as the O'Driscolls. So he does the only thing he feels is right. The only thing that is right.

"Drive." Arthur says, and when (y/n) doesn't move an inch, he drags in another breath. His attackers don't connect the dots just yet, look at him first, then at the car. "Drive, goddamnit!" 

"There's someone else!" One of the men growls. (Y/n) stomps down on the gas pedal, dust whirls up behind the car from its speed. "Aim for the windows!"

But they're not that quick. 

(Y/n) makes a getaway before they can do any proper damage to her or the car, and Arthur exhales a stuttered breath of relief.

Next thing he knows, he feels a dull pain on the inside of his left knee. Two pairs of hands are forcing him down to his knees again, one of them grasps his wrists and holds them behind his back.

The tallest one of the bunch walks in front of him, takes his chin in his hand, forces it upwards.

"Little bastard." He growls. And then he punches him. Hard. Arthur can't tell what he says after that, his ears are ringing, and he has to spit blood. "...thought y'could steal from us, didn't ya? Thought we were stupid?"

"Never said that." Arthur responds. "Figured 'twas obvious."

Another punch.

"Should we shoot 'im or have some fun first, boys?" The biggest of the bunch pauses for effect. "Cut off a finger? Maybe scalp him?"

All of them grin, except for one. Instead, he looks Arthur up and down critically before he speaks up.

"He does look a wee bit familiar though, don't he?"

"He remind you of one o' your past lovers or what?" Another quips.

"Nah, more like one o' Van der Linde's boys."

He can't do much other than swallow thickly and ignore the cottony feeing in his mouth. 

"Bet Colm's gonna be real happy 'f he is." 

Lady luck is a goddamn traitor, and Arthur's never been quite so sure of it.


	16. Chapter 16

Arthur wakes up with a headache and the taste of blood in his mouth. There's an ache rooted deeply within every single one of his muscles and bones, he doesn't even have to look at his bruises — he can literally feel the exact location of each and every single one.

His entire body is numb, but his instincts are as sharp as ever. Arthur doesn't know much about his situation yet, but there's one thing he's certain about: he needs to leave. Right now.

"Good thing ya didn't kill him just yet." A dull sound of a voice, coming from another room. "Maybe he'll be cooperate."

Great, just what he needed.

Arthur tries to move — no such luck.

His arms are secured to the wooden armrests of a chair. So are his legs, so is his torso. Nausea overcomes him like a punch to the gut when he realizes in just how bad of a situation he's in. Bound tightly with leather belts to a fucking wooden chair, in the middle of what looks to be an old fishing shop.

"Doubt that." Another voice says. "It's Morgan, ain't he Dutch's favorite lap dog?"

"Then why did that other kid say that he was dead?" Another questions. Everyone pauses before a conclusion follows.

"Maybe Morgan ran away?"

"Why?"

Silence follows, a familiar voice speaks up. "I'll see if he's up, you boys go back on patrol. This is the second one of Dutch's boys 'round these parts this week, there have got to be more."

He's not the only one?

Arthur feels the air drain from his lungs, he tugs at his restraints again. They've got someone else in here. Someone from his gang. He needs to find them, talk to them, find a way—

A door behind him creaks as it opens.

"Arthur Morgan." A pause for effect. "'S been a while."

Colm fucking O'Driscoll.

Arthur growls at the back of his throat, but glancing behind himself is futile. "Not long enough." 

His snarky comment is kindly ignored by Colm, though Arthur's sure it will bite him back sometime within the next few hours. "How'd you sleep?"

"The best I had in weeks." He answers. "Y'should let some o'your boys go with me so I can let 'em beat me up every evening b'fore bed."

Colm chuckles. "Still a sarcastic lil' shit."

Arthur grins as his rival pulls up another chair, then flips it around to sit down in front of him.

"And yer still a bastard. Reckon neither of us changed all that much since last time."

Colm shakes his head, smiles in a way that's positively sickening. "That's where you're wrong." He gestures at himself with grandeur, like he's someone of a high rank with uncountable achievements. "I'm living a fine life. Unlike you and good ol' Dutch, still crawling around in the dark like the lowlife that you are."

Arthur scoffs. "I'll have ya know we been doin' jus' fine." Not exactly a lie, but not the truth either.

Colm grins like he knows all of Arthur's intricacies and secrets — as if he were a child that had memorized a poem. "Not well enough for you to stay around, apparently."

Shit.

He knows, Arthur realizes. Colm knows he wasn't with the gang anymore, he's found out that Arthur had left them behind. But how?

"The hell's that s'posed t'mean?" The chair doesn't allow much shifting nor comfort, Arthur makes due with just leaning his head back and frowning.

"A little birdie told me you were dead. Bitten, infected, and somehow...here you are."

"Here I am. Back from the dead." Arthur's hands are already tied to be facing upwards, so he just spreads his fingers demonstratively, then smiles. His split lip and broken nose hurt like hell, but he'll force a grin onto his face just to spite Colm. If they wants to break him, they'll need to do more than this. Far more. "Guess y'could call me Jesus."

He doesn't expect another punch to his face. It's agile and sharp, but it does the job well. Blood starts trickling down his lips again.

"Bullshit." Colm spits, tone entirely different from just a few seconds ago. "You ran away, Arthur. Like the little fucking coward that you are. The question that remains is why?"

His words hurt much more than expected. (Y/n) had sugarcoated his situation until now, so far, he'd only heard that accusation from the voice inside his head.

But hearing it out loud...definitely hits differently. He's even angrier now — at himself, at his predicament, at Colm, at the world he's been damned to live in. 

Colm is kind enough to give Arthur a second to grind his jaw and blink a few times before he moves to stand. He unholsters a revolver, holds it loosely. When Arthur licks the blood off his chapped lips Colm approaches him with wide steps. The honeyed calmness from a few seconds ago is faded entirely, but that's nothing new. The leader of the O'Driscoll gang had never been known for his patience.

Colm seizes his chin and forces it upwards. Cold metal — the muzzle of his revolver — is pressed to Arthur's collarbone, both a threat and a statement. "I am not askin' a third time, Arthur. Why?"

They won't kill him, Arthur knows that much. Whatever it is that Colm wants to get at eventually, he needs the information, needs him. Arthur's not discardable, at least not for the moment. 

But that's far from a guarantee that he'll be safe from harm, quite the opposite.

So Arthur thinks it best he start talking, regardless if it's lies, truth, or both.

"I didn't run away." Arthur has to resist the urge to either spit in Colm's face or bite the hand that grips his chin. "I got lost."

"Bullshit." This time, Colm hits him with the grip of his pistol. He can hear a dull crack in his nose. "We both know that ain't the reason."

He needs a few seconds to recollect himself, his ears are ringing.

"I told you." Arthur insists, coughs when he chokes on the blood that's trickling into his mouth. "I. Got. Lost."

Colm sighs, lets himself fall on the chair in front of Arthur before he whistles sharply. Two men burst into the room, move to stand beside Arthur.

"We'll talk again when he's more hungry 'n thirsty." Colm tells them. "Take him to the rest."

Next thing Arthur knows, he gets hit over the back of his head, and he blacks out.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The pains of sleeping on the ground fade in comparison to laying on concrete. Arthur wakes up face down against the cool, hard ground. It's cold, so cold that he feels like the temperature has rooted itself deep inside his bones and is never going to leave him again. He groans, reaches for one of his shoulders—

His hands are untied, he realizes. Thank god.

So are his legs, the chair from before is nowhere to be seen. He moves towards the nearest wall, uses it to sit up, then looks around.

He's in an old police precinct, in one of six cells. Everything is silent, except for the clattering of teeth coming from one side of the room and the silent snore of the guard sitting in the middle of it.

This would be a good chance to escape. He just needs to...find a way to get out. Arthur crawls over to the door of his cell, tugs on it. 

Locked. 

Of course. He grips the bars, uses them to slowly rise to his feet, then looks around. Three other cells aside from his are occupied. One of the prisoners, diagonally across the room from Arthur's cell lays on the floor, back facing him. The one in the cell beside his leans against the wall, chin to his chest and sleeps, and the third—

"Arthur?"

He'd recognize that soft, boyish voice anywhere.

He grips the bars as he sucks in a breath, a glance at the person in the cell opposing his own is enough to confirm it.

"Lenny?"

"Arthur!" The boy holds onto the bars just like Arthur is, staring at his former gang member in both disbelief and relief. The poor kid looks awful: bloodshot eyes, broken nose, tired eyes. But he smiles, honestly, brightly. "Arthur, what the hell are you doin' here?"

He has to hold back a fond smile of his own. Lenny is alive. His gang is alive, thank god.

"Same as you." Arthur answers with the first honest half-smile he's mustered that night. 

"But Hosea said you was..."

Arthur looks at the guard briefly, making sure he's still asleep before putting his index over his bloodied lips. Lenny gets the message, gives a nod.

"'S a long story." Arthur whispers. "But now we...We need to get out. Fast."

Lenny's smile turns bitter, he casts his eyes down. "I ain't gettin' outta here, Arthur. Not alive."

"C'mon now, kid." Arthur frowns, presses closer to the bars. "We ain't givin' up this easi—"

Lenny suddenly looks his dead in the eye, raises his left arm. With his other trembling hand, he hooks his finger inside the sleeve of his shirt, lowers it slowly.

A bite. Maybe a day old, blood crusts its surface, and it's swollen. The first signs of infection.

"Agh, shit." Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs. 

Lenny nods, leans his back against one of the walls, then lets himself slide down until he sits on the ground. "Shit indeed. They caught me yesterday, just after I got—..." He raises his arm again meaningfully.

Arthur leans his forehead against the bars, welcomes the coolness against his skin. "'M sorry, kid."

"I guess you had a good instinct 'bout runnin' away, though." Lenny tells him. He peeks at the guard again before lowering his voice to a whisper Arthur can barely make out. "Everything just went...crazy after you left. Dutch, he— the plan with the military failed, n' he was already angry b'cause you was well...dead, n' after that it just escalated n' escalated."

Arthur shifts to sit down again, he's too beaten up to stand for too long. Not like the ground is much better, but he'll take what he can get. "Whatchu mean?"

"There was a fight. Real big one. John, he...called Dutch out, for everythin'. Every failed plan 'n every unnecessary death. Long story short, the camp split up in two, the ones that stayed loyal t' Dutch 'n the ones that didn't. Miss Grimshaw and Molly got shot along the way."

Arthur wipes at the blood on his lips, finds that his nose is still bleeding. "Damn."

Lenny goes quiet. But they can't afford that. If he, by some miracle, gets out of here, Arthur needs to know everything that there is to know.

"What now?" Arthur asks.

"Everyone's on the run, I guess. I got separated from John, Charles n' the others yesterday, when we ran into a horde of zombies. Somehow ended up here, y'can figure out the rest for yourself."

"John 'n the others, where..." Arthur lowers his voice again when the guard stops snoring for a moment. He's not awake, thankfully. Just shifts in his seat before falling back into unconsciousness. "Where are they?"

"'F I knew, I wouldn't be here." Lenny pauses. "But then again, I'll turn by tomorrow evenin' if I'm lucky, so I guess it don't matter all that much."

Arthur nods, tries to accommodate himself on the ground. "How you feelin'? Got a headache or fever?"

"Took a proper beatin', but...otherwise no. Not yet." Lenny shakes his head, crosses his arms over his chest and draws his legs closer to himself. "Hell, guess y'could even say I'm lucky for gettin' infected."

Arthur smiles bitterly. "I don't even got that."

Lenny looks his way, raises a brow inquisitively.

For the first time since he'd realized it, Arthur finally accepts that, for some reason, he's been saved from the dreadful fate that awaits everyone else. He accepts that the weight of something he will never understand rests on his shoulders, and that he has to face his fate, no matter what it may be. 

That realization is not grand by any means: it comes in the form of a shushed whisper. "I'm immune."


End file.
